Spider's Web
by Well Groomed Goldfish
Summary: HetaliaxSherlock Holmes crossover. Because somebody needed to do it.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I LOVE sherlock holmes, and I love hetalia...so me, being the lame idiot that I am, decided to cross them over. I'm actually terrified of this fic. Mystery is so difficult to write, and I'm so scared that I completely killed the Sherlock Holmes characters. But nobody else would do this, and I wanted to see it so badly...**

**Truth be told, I've only got a vauge idea where this is going. This will probably be my main fic, so I should be updating it pretty regularly...but i've been so busy lately! Ahh...oh well. **

**Please, Please, Please tell me what you think. As I said, I'm really scared that I'm going to butcher this. It doesn't help that the writing style of the original Sherlock Holmes is rather heavy and quite a bit more formal and I want this fic to be rather colliquial...ahhh...I'll do my best!**

**Ch. 1: The Beginning**

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The fog hung heavy over the ancient city, yellowed and thick from the heavy industrialization that had enabled its growth. A carriage rumbled down the old cobblestone streets, coming to a sudden halt as the driver of the vehicle gave an exclamation. After some pause, the door to the carriage swung open and a figure hopped out, looking around briefly before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out some bills, which he gave the driver. Nodding slightly to the man, the driver took the money before turning to the horses, giving another exclamation. The carriage lurched forward, leaving the figure in the yellowed, swirling fog.

The figure, a tall young man, wrapped his traveling cloak closer around himself and looked around once more before setting off in a brief trot down the street. His face was partially hidden by the top hat he wore, and his body obscured by the cloak he had draped around his frame. He paused a few times, looking down at a piece of paper he held in a gloved hand and examining the houses as he passed by. Finally, he seemed to find the house he had been looking for, and stuffed the paper back into his pocket before ascending the short, stone steps that led up to the door. Pausing only slightly, the figure raised a gloved hand and rapped briefly on the door. There was a silence, before the door swung open, revealing a kindly woman with blonde hair drawn back in a bun. "Hello there" she said, smiling, "May I be of assistance?"

The man nodded, "Yes. I'm here to see Mr. Holmes." He said, his voice worn and jerky.

The woman frowned, "I'm sorry, sir" she apologized, "But Mr. Holmes is currently out. I have no idea when he'll be ba-"

"I have to see him" the man cut the lady off, "It's urgent."

"It's always urgent with Mr. Holmes' customers." The woman sighed then shrugged, "Fine. Come in, sir. You can wait in the sitting room…I should warn you though. Mr. Holmes has a strange habit of disappearing on hours, or even days on end, so you might have quite a wait."

The man thanked her, bowing his head slightly before following the woman into the house. They passed through a short hallway into a rather comfortable looking sitting room. A loveseat sat across from two large armchairs. There was a small coffee-table in the between the loveseat and the armchairs, and a large fire roared in the hearth. The man collapsed into the armchair closest to the fire, allowing himself to sag into the cushion. He let out a sigh and removed his top hat, revealing a head of blonde hair with a strange strand sticking up. His eyes were blue, framed by a pair of glasses which he pulled off to pass his hand over his face as he sat by the fire. An audible sigh escaped his lips as he sat in silence for some time. The lady had offered him tea, and when he declined, smiled sadly before leaving him alone in the sitting room.

The young man sat alone in silence for some time, staring moodily at the roaring fire before him. His face was worn and tired, and his eyes kept sagging shut, snapping open as he started to lose his balance. Every now and then, a noise from upstairs would startle him, but for the most part, he sat before the fire, chewing his lower lip in thought.

After about half an hour had passed, the front door swung open and slammed shut, causing the young man before the fire to look over his shoulder just as another man entered the room. He appeared older than the man before the fire, with a rather thick moustache and square jaw. He paused, taking off the hat he wore before uttering a soft exclamation upon catching sight of the other.

"I'm sorry" the younger man apologized, rising before the other could speak, "I'm here to see Mr. Holmes. It's terribly urgent, and I swear, I won't leave until I can see him. I...I'm desperate, and Holmes is my last chance."

The other, quickly recovering from his shock, nodded as the younger man finished speaking, "I see. He's out now, isn't he? I think he's working on something, so he might be out for quite a while."

The younger man shook his head, the strange cowlick bouncing up and down, "I can't leave. It's…it's…it's just terribly, _terribly _urgent. I've got to see him. I've just got to." He wrung his hands together as he spoke, his young face drawn into a terrible grimace, "Please, Mr…" here the younger man paused, looking questioningly up at the other.

"Watson" the man responded, "Dr. John H. Watson. I'm Holmes' friend and chronicler, if you will. And you are…?"

"Alfred F. Jones." The blonde responded, quickly, nodding his head in response. "Dr. Watson. Please. If you're Holmes' friend, you _must_ help me. Talk to Holmes, please. As I said before, I'm desperate. I don't care what it takes, money isn't a problem. I can pay you any sum, give you anything…"

"Holmes isn't interested in money" Watson replied shrugging, "If your case interests him, he'll take it. If not…"

"Have you heard of the murder of the Archduke Percy?" Jones asked, his tone guarded and expression tense.

Watson raised an eyebrow, "Of course I have" he responded, "It's been all over the news…you'd have to live under a rock to not have heard of it. Terrible, wasn't it? He was beaten to death with an old metal pipe. But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Surely, you remember the name of the man they named the murderer?"

"Why yes." Watson shrugged, "It was a very simple case, really. The doors and windows were all locked, and there was only one man with the key. Not to mention his prints were all over the murder weapon…Kirkland, Arthur Kirkland, wasn't it? Some upper-class gentleman as well. Not as well known or as high of ranking as Archduke Percy, of course, but still somewhat shocking."

"It wasn't Kirkland" Jones shook his head, his mouth a straight line, "Kirkland didn't kill the Archduke. He didn't."

"I'm sorry, my boy" Watson said, a slight frown tugging at the edges of his lips, "But all the evidence points to him."

"He didn't do it!" Jones shook his head, his eyes wild and face pale, "Damnit, It simply wasn't possible for him to have done it!"

"And why do you say that?" the other asked, "Haven't you seen the evidence?"

"Yes." Jones waved his hand impatiently, "Yes of course, I read the paper, I saw everything, but it just simply wasn't possible for Arthur to have killed that man!"

"Again, why do you say that?"

"Because" Jones shook his head and looked at Watson imploringly, "I know Artie! Please. You've got to believe me! He just wouldn't commit a lowly crime like that!"

"People have more than once face" Watson said, apologetically to Jones, "I'm sure that the face he showed you was perfectly innocent…"

Jones shook his head, "Please. Please, let me talk to Mr. Holmes. I was with Artie the night of the murder, I was with him…he...he didn't do anything, he's completely innocent!"

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**So? Ahh..I don't kno!!!! *headdesks* Please tell me what you think! Don't own the characters...oh well. **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n: So I forgot to say this in the first chapter. I realize that the actualy SH stories are told (for the most part) from the POV of Watson, as the chronicler. However, I didn't feel confident enough to do that...ahaha~sorry. Another thing; the nations are nations. They aren't normal ppl, they are the nations that they represent. Just thought I should clear that up! :3**

**Ch. 2: Story**

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"Kirkland was with you that night?" Watson repeated, the disbelief evident in his tone.

"Yes, yes!" Jones seized Watson's hands and looked down on the slightly shorter man, his blue eyes overflowing with worry, "Please. You've got to understand! Artie's innocent! He didn't hurt anyone, he wasn't there, this…this…"

"Mr. Jones" Watson frowned, trying to tug his hands out of the younger man's vice grip, "Mr. Jones, could you let go, Mr. Jones, please, _I can't feel my hands_."

"Ah…oh. Sorry." Jones frowned slightly and released the other's hands, taking a step back, "Sorry about that…I sometimes forget my own strength. Anyways. Please Dr. Watson. You've gotta talk to Holmes. I've tried everything…"

"I'm assuming you've already been to the police?"

Jones nodded miserably, "Yea. 'course I did. They didn't believe me of course. Said I was lying to protect Artie." The man collapsed on the armchair, physically and emotionally drained, "Why? I'm telling the truth, so why don't they _believe_ me?"

"Mr. Jones…the evidence against Kirkland is horribly compelling" Watson said, massaging feeling back into his hands, "Really, everything points to him…"

There was a loud banging from the door, and the pair jumped, startled. "Wait here" Watson said to Jones, "I'll get it."

Watson disappeared down the hallway and returned a few minutes later, trailed by a rather large, heavily built man. The larger man wasn't exactly attractive; his frame was bulky and clumsy, but his face expressed intelligence, the dark brow drawn back in deep thought, the lips pulled down in a somewhat worried expression.

"Mr. Jones" Watson approached the blonde, "This is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother and senior by seven years."

Jones nodded, and stood, extending a hand which Mycroft took, "Alfred F. Jones" he said, introducing himself to the larger man.

"Mycroft comes on a mission similar to yours, correct?" Watson asked, once introductions had been finished.

"I'm here concerning the murder of Archduke Percy and the accused man, Sir Kirkland" Mycroft explained, his dark, intelligent eyes roving over Alfred.

"He didn't do it, I'm telling you!" Alfred looked up at Mycroft his hands grasped in prayer, "I swear, Artie wouldn't do something like that! He just wouldn't!"

"For your sake, as well as my own, I hope you're right" Mycroft shook his head, "I work with the government, and apparently, your Artie's something…special. What, I don't know. They refused to tell me, but did tell me that, no matter what, I had to prove Kirkland was innocent."

Watson looked genuinely surprised, "Find him innocent? Why is the government so concerned with Kirkland's well-being?"

Mycroft shrugged, looking troubled, "Like I said, Kirkland's apparently something special. They won't tell me what it is exactly, but they're desperate that he be found not guilty…Even if…" his face turned darker, and the frown on his lips became more prominent, "Even if we must pin this crime on an innocent…"

Watson looked shocked, and stared at Mycroft a few seconds before gasping out, "W…what!?"

Mycroft nodded grimly, "You heard me correctly. The government is so desperate, they're willing to let an innocent man hang."

"That…They can't do that!" Watson was shaking his head quickly, "What kind of justice system is this?! What's so special about Sir Kirkland anyways? He's a noble, but one of rather low ranking…"

Mycroft shrugged, also looking troubled, "Again, I don't know. Strange thing, actually. I tried to find records of the Kirkland name, the Kirkland family, and came up with nothing. It's like they never existed. There are other Kirkland families, but I wasn't able to trace a single one of them back to our Arthur." Mycroft looked over at Alfred who suddenly looked rather uncomfortable, "Do you know anything about Kirkland? According to Watson, you're good friends, no?"

Alfred shook his head quickly, "Yes, we're good friends, but do I know anything out of the ordinary? No."

"Well then why would a government agent from America be here, and moreover, apparently determined to prove Kirkland's innocence?" Mycroft asked.

Alfred gave a start, "What?" he asked, looking rather shocked, "Wait, who are you talking about?"

"You, obviously." Mycroft responded.

"How did you know I was an American governmental agent?" Alfred looked surprised, "I can see how you got the American part, the accent, but how did you know I worked in the government?"

"I work with the government myself. " Mycroft responded, "I'll admit it, at first I wasn't sure. You look too young to actually have a role in the government. Your attire obviously speaks one of wealth, or high ranking, yet it is clear that you spend a good quality of your time in manual labor. Your hands are rather calloused, and you're too tan to have spent your entire time behind a desk. So, that eliminates most professions, such as lawyer or banker. Doctor or other scientific field is also highly unlikely, as your hands have no evidence of chemical or biological residue. I thought you might have inherited a large fortune, and perhaps enjoyed spending time outside, yet you speak like a common man. So what job would enable a common man to reach a higher status, and requires physical labor? Simple. A field agent of the government."

Alfred had been silent through the entire explanation, and when Mycroft had finished, shook his head slowly, "I…should I applaud you or will just looking shocked suffice?"

Mycroft shrugged, "It's not too difficult, actually. Now" he turned to Watson, "Have you any idea when my brother will return?"

Watson shook his head, "He left early this morning, so there's no telling when he'll be back. Perhaps in a few days, perhaps in a few hours…"

"Perhaps now."

The group of three looked up as another man entered the room. Tall and lanky, he took the traveling cloak he wore off, draping it over his arm. His face was rather thin, with a well-defined jaw, and dark, intelligent eyes set below dark eyebrows.

"Perfect timing as usual, Sherlock" Mycroft said, smiling, "Sometimes, I wonder. Do you just lurk behind the doors and time your entrance as to when you deem it most dramatic?"

Holmes smiled, "Yes, sometimes I admit I do. Watson has seen me do that on several occasions, have you not?"

Watson rolled his eyes, "More often than it is healthy for me, yes."

Holmes chuckled, before turning to his brother and Alfred, "So, I return on my walk, and find two people have stumbled upon my home in my absence. How may I help you?"

"We come on similar missions" Mycroft explained, "So I do believe you'll be able to help us both."

"Wonderful" Holmes said, the grin still evident on his face, "So what is this common problem that brings you two here?"

"The murder of the Archduke Percy" Jones responded.

"Is that case not already closed?" Holmes asked, "I thought they had already named who they believed to be the murder. Your close friend, Sir Kirkland, wasn't it?" he asked Jones.

"How did you know I was close to Artie?" asked Jones, "I don't think we've ever met before."

"No, we haven't" Holmes nodded, "Yet it really is obvious. You are clearly strained, and haven't been sleeping for several days, if the bags under your eyes are anything to go by. You've lost weight in a short period of time, as a result of not eating for quite a while either. Clearly, you're terribly worried about something. You mention the murder of the Archduke. Such a traumatic event could, and probably is, the cause of your condition. You've been horribly affected by it. Perhaps you were a good friend of the Archduke, as you are obviously a member of the upper class. But then why would you come to me? The police have already solved this case. No, you would not be here were you concerned about the Archduke. You are concerned about the accused, Sir Kirkland, and do not believe him guilty. He is a close friend, and you do not wish to see him hang. Thus, you have come to me, seeking assistance in proving that Sir Kirkland is innocent."

"When you explain it, it doesn't sound as complicated" Jones said, "It's like a magic trick. Maybe you shouldn't tell people how you do it and just leave them amazed."

"It's not that difficult" Holmes responded, "Now that we have determined what you are here for, let's talk about what you know about this. Tell me, and please, don't leave anything, no matter how insignificant or incriminating it may seem, out." Holmes crossed over and sat in the loveseat across from Jones.

Jones nodded, "Artie and I are friends…we've been very close for a very, very long time." he spoke quickly, his eyes bright and imploring, "As you already know, I am American. I come visit Artie about once a year. Personally, I'd love to see him more, but with the transportation and work and whatnot, I simply don't have the time. I arrived in England only a few days ago, and was set to depart tomorrow. However, with events as they are, I simply cannot, and will not return home until I am ensured that Artie is safe.

That being said, the night of the murder, Artie and I were at his house. The servants had all retired for the night, and we had intended to spend the night by the fire, with perhaps some bourbon to help put us to sleep." Jones paused, shaking his head, "Here, I was a fool. As I've previously said, I've known Artie for a long, long time, and know his drinking habits too well. He…doesn't hold his liquor very well, and when he drinks, he almost always drinks too much. Within half an hour, he was completely drunk, and was singing quite loudly." Jones paused again, chewing at his lower lip and staring at the floor before him.

"And you stayed with him in that condition the entire night?" Mycroft asked, prodding Jones.

Jones shook his head, "No…no I didn't…You see…Artie and I had a kind of..well, I suppose you could call it a conflict. A very ugly, very painful conflict a while back…and well, you see, he's never really quite gotten over it...No, he hasn't ever gotten over it at all. Most of the time, he acts like he doesn't care, but when he gets drunk, it all starts pouring out…He started yelling at me and calling me names…I knew there was no point in reasoning with him. I tried to get him at least to his bedroom, or at least get him to sleep, but he kept struggling…So, after a while, I gave up, retired to my own chambers, and left Artie to his own devices. By the time I left, he had quieted down, and was kinda just sitting there with a scowl on his face, muttering to himself. I came down later to make sure that he was alright, that he hadn't hurt himself or destroyed the room, and sure enough, there he was on the floor, completely nude, curled up around the bourbon bottle and surrounded by a number of other alcoholic drinks, fast asleep. I took him up to his room, got him in some pajamas and tucked him into bed. He had a terrible hangover the next day, and spent the morning in bed, groaning about his headache and cursing me to high hell."

"And this man is your friend…?" Watson asked, his tone disbelieving.

Jones smiled, "Yep. You know how some friends are…they just have those habits that you can't break, or that weird quirk that annoys you, but you stick with them anyways?"

"Like constantly jabbing oneself with various poisons and god knows what else, smoking tobacco like a chimney, playing violin at three in the morning, having constant mood swings, or not telling you what exactly the plan is, and yet expecting you to follow through?" Watson asked, glaring at Holmes as he spoke, "Yes. I do believe I can relate to you."

"Do you remember about the time you retired to your chambers?" Holmes asked, ignoring Watson's comment.

Jones nodded, "There was a large clock in the room, and I glanced at it before going to bed. It was 11:15, exactly."

"And the time you came back down?"

"3 in the morning."

"Which gives us approximately a four-hour gap in which you were not with Kirkland." Holmes said, "And in addition to that, the time of death was approximated at about 1 in the morning. How far is the Kirkland residence from the Archduke's?"

Jones bit his lower lip, looking away, "Only…about thirty minutes away by horseback. Max."

"Which means it was possible for Kirkland to go to the Percy residence, commit the murder, and return home by the time you checked on him, no?" Holmes stared intently at Jones before shaking his head, "Mr. Jones, I must be perfectly honest with you here. Are you telling the complete truth of the events that happened that night?"

Jones's flush intensified, "W…what do you mean!?"

"You're not telling me the truth." Holmes responded, sighing and leaning back in his chair, "And Mr. Jones, until you are willing to give me the full account of what happened that night, I cannot help you."

"But…!"

"No. You either tell the truth, or we shall be so kind as to escort you on your way out."

Jones gaped at Holmes, who had risen and crossed over to the door, "Mr. Jones. I want to help you on this case. It promises to be a rather interesting one, but if you will not cooperate, I do not see how I can help you." He opened the door, and looked expectantly over at Jones, who had not risen from his seat, vying to stare at Holmes instead.

"You…I…"

"Mr. Jones. Please. Either tell the truth, the entire story, or I will not take this case."

"I…" Jones stared at Holmes a few seconds, before slumping back into his chair, "Fine." His voice sounded strained, "You…I'll tell you the truth. The next day…I wanted to go for a ride…One of the horses…Artie's, had been ridden the night before. Hard. The person who had ridden him had not even bothered to take off the saddle or remove the bit…the horse's coat was sticky from sweat, and the horse's feet were caked in mud. It had rained the day before, and…I…I asked Artie about it. He admitted to going out that night for a ride, after I had left him…said he wanted to clear his head. But…he said he couldn't remember exactly what had happened…" Jones shook his head, "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. This is my fault. It is. If…if I had stayed with Artie that night…if I had looked after him…I…I've already left him behind before…and…it…it just never works out…"

Jones sucked in a dry sob, grasping his head in his hands, "I…there. I've told you everything." He looked up at Holmes, "Now…please. Will you help?"

Holmes stared at Jones for a few seconds before re-crossing back to his chair, "Sir Kirkland is a very strange figure." He said, sinking back into the chair, "He is a noble, yet there is no official trace of him, am I correct in saying this, Mycroft?" Holmes turned to his brother, who nodded in response.

"Yes." The older said, "I checked through all the documents, had some of my clerks look through centuries of families…and Kirkland couldn't be connected to any of them. I don't even know how Kirkland became a noble, how he acquired his land…there's not even documentation of his birth!"

Holmes looked over at Jones, who had gone rather pale, gripping the arms of the chair he sat in until his knuckles had turned white, "H…How strange" he managed to get out in a strangled voice.

"Come now, Jones." Holmes said, "It's clear you know _something_ about Sir Kirkland. We need all the information we can get. There must be a reason Sir Kirkland simply doesn't exist."

"It doesn't pertain to this murder" Jones said sharply.

"So you admit you know something."

"I..I.." Jones stuttered, trapped by his own words.

"Again, Mr. Jones, I will not help you unless you provide me with all the information you know."

"I…I can't" Jones shook his head wildly, "Damnit, you're asking too much! This...I…"

"How is asking for the truth asking too much?" Holmes retorted, "You expect me to prove this man is innocent, yet you do not even entrust me with the full extent of your knowledge?"

"What Artie…it…It has nothing to do with this case!" Jones yelled, his face flushed, "It doesn't concern this case, doesn't concern you! Fuck, you don't get it, do you!? I..I can't tell you!!"

"Then I can't help you."

"You have to!"

Before Holmes could retort, the door to the room suddenly swung open, revealing two men. Both were blonde, with wavy hair. One had blue eyes, and the other, purplish, framed by glasses. The blue-eyes man had his hair pulled back in a ponytail, and the purple-eyed man's face shared a striking resemblance to Alfred's.

"Mattie? Francis?" Alfred stood up, confusion evident on his face, "How did you know…?"

"It doesn't matter" Francis abruptly cut Alfred off, "What are you doing here?"

"I came for help"

"Has he given you any?"

"No…but" Alfred looked at Holmes.

"I'll help when you agree to tell me everything I ask."

"And what do you want to know?" Francis inquired.

"I want to know about Kirkland. Who was he? Why doesn't any documentation of this man, even though he is a noble, exist?"

Francis shook his head, "Then, Mr. Holmes, we will have to disappoint you. We simply cannot supply you with that information."

"Francis!" Alfred approached the man, "This is our only chance. We've got to get his help. I've talked to almost everyone; nobody will take this case!"

Again, Francis shook his head, "It's not possible. You know that. Now come on, let's go."

Alfred glared at Francis, and when he grabbed Alfred's arm, he wrenched it out of the other man's grasp, "Don't even try to force me out of here, Francis." Alfred growled, "You know I can easily overpower you."

"Alfred, you're being ridiculous!"

"I don't care, we need to save Arthur!"

"Brother…" the violet-haired man suddenly spoke, looking rather concerned, "Brother…Please. Listen to Francis" his voice was quiet, and the entire room had to strain to hear him, "You know he's right. We can't tell anyone about that."

"Mattie…"

"Al, please. C'mon. Let's go." Matthew stared at Alfred, "We want Arthur safe as well. You know we do. But this…this, we can't do. Let's go."

Alfred returned Matthew's stare, looked back at Holmes, then sighed, "Fine. Fine. We'll go. Mr. Holmes, I hope you someday realize the disservice you are performing to your country. Here." he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and paper. On it, he scribbled something down, and handed it to Holmes, "This is where I'm staying. If you finally come around, please come see me. I'm desperate, I really am, and can give you anything…just not tell you about Artie."

With that, Alfred turned, and with Matthew and Francis, left the room.

"What do you think about it?" Watson asked Holmes as soon as the three men had left.

Holmes shrugged, "As I have said before, Watson, I never form theories before I look at the facts. The only facts I have is the brief account which Mr. Jones gave, and what I have seen in the paper. I am not magical, and cannot draw conclusions before I have even investigated some of the scenes myself."

"Yes" Watson said, "But are you interested in this case?"

"Yes." Holmes replied, "It's a shame, actually…I really wanted to take the case up too. It promised to be interesting."

"Brother" Mycroft spoke up, "I'm sorry to tell you, but you might not have a choice in this case."

Holmes looked somewhat surprised, "And why not, pray tell."

"This case involves the government." Mycroft said, "As I have said repeatedly, there's something about Kirkland, something that has caused for direct orders from the heads of the government to not allow his execution. The public, however, will not stand for the Archduke's death to not go unpunished. The police have already named Kirkland as the perpetrator of the crime, and unless someone else is proven guilty, he will hang. This is where the government comes in. For reasons I cannot fathom, they will not allow Kirkland to hang at all costs. Meaning they will find another guilty party, even if they have to invent the guilty party themselves."

"You mean they will hang an innocent man?" Holmes said quietly, his eyes widened in shock.

Mycroft nodded, "Yes. But, Jones may be right. Kirkland may be innocent, and the actual murderer of this case may be someone else entirely. This…this is why I came to you. We can't let an innocent man hang."

"If such a thing happens, won't we be able to inform the public?" Watson asked.

Mycroft, looked down, "No…if…if such a thing happens, I believe…measures will be taken to silence you."

"What if Kirkland did indeed commit the crime?" Holmes asked.

"Then an innocent man will hang. This, this is our only chance, Brother. Perhaps he didn't commit the crime. You know that the police are sometimes rather careless. Please, investigate this case…perhaps the guilty party isn't Kirkland…perhaps we can catch the actual killer."

"I see." Holmes was frowning, his face drawn in thought. "I'll go talk to Sir Kirkland now. You can get me to him, right Mycroft? Excellent. Perhaps he will be more willing to cooperate that Mr. Jones."

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**;A; gahhhh!!!! sherlock and mycroft are so difficult to write for!!!! ;A; and yes, i realize i switch between first-name and last-names quite often. I'm not sure what to do with sherlock, b/c sherlock is just such an awkward name, but since mycroft's last name is also holmes....ahhh. just assume i'm talking about sherlock when i say holmes. Sorry. **

**Also, yes. I realize America is totally Ooc, but I thought that if he were put in a situation that he had no control over, where he couldn't play hero, he might become Ooc...sorry if that bugs anyone. Hopefully, he'll be back to his loveable self soon....**

**Feedback would be awesome~**


	3. Chapter 3

**Ahh...new chapter! I've been writing so much over spring break~it's awesome! :D We had Sakura-con this weekend but i missed it...;A; my sis went and had a great time tho, and bought me something, so i can't say i'm too bummed...**

**Ch. 3- Meeting Sir Kirkland**

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The Newgate Prison was old, one of the oldest in London. Recently, it had been renovated, as a movement for prisoner's rights had rippled across the nation. Nonetheless, it was a formidable place, with large stone archways and imposing guards.

"Sir Kirkland?" the guard asked, looking suspiciously at Mycroft, "I'm sorry, but he's a higher class prisoner. I'm afraid I can't let you see him."

"And I'm afraid you can." Mycroft retorted, pulling out some papers and handing them to the guard. The man looked over them briefly, an eyebrow quirking up as he did so, before he handed the papers back to Mycroft.

"Sorry sir" the guard said, bowing slightly, "I'll go get Sir Kirkland right now."

Mycroft nodded and smiled, watching the guard's retreating back, "See?" he said, looking over at Holmes, "Sometimes having ties in the government is useful."

"But more often than not, using methods that may, ah…not necessarily be condoned by the government proves more fruitful" Holmes retorted, also smirking lightly, "If I were a completely law-abiding citizen, several cases would remain unsolved to this day."

Mycroft shrugged, still smiling and turned away, leading the other two to one of the wooden benches in the empty visitor's room. It was a large room, made of stone and only furnished with wooden benches and tables. The three men sat down on the bench, across from another one with a table between the two.

"Sirs" the guard had returned, with a man in tow. Hands shackled together, the prisoner still managed to maintain an air of dignity as he walked, his green eyes looking at the men before him with contempt, as if they were the ones in chains and not he.

The guard led the man over to a table and locked the edge of the chains to a peg that had been nailed into the wall. "Here's Kirkland sir." The guard said, stepping slightly away, "Just give a holler when you're done talking to him, ok?"

"Thank you." Mycroft nodded, and the guard retreated, leaving the four men alone.

"May I inquire as to who you are?" Kirkland asked, his expression cold and guarded.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes", Holmes gestured to himself, "This is my brother, Mycroft, and my close friend, Dr. James H. Watson."

"I've heard of you before" Kirkland said, his bright green eyes staring straight into Holmes' darker ones, "A consulting detective, If I'm correct?"

"Yes I am. I come on behalf of two parties" Holmes responded, matching Kirkland's gaze with his own, "The first is the government, which my brother brought to my attention. The second is a young man who is a close friend of yours. Alfred F. Jones?"

At the mention of the name, Kirkland started slightly, "Al came to you?" he asked, his eyes slightly widening, "That bloody idiot. I told him not to worry."

"Unfortunately, Sir Kirkland, Mr. Jones is very much so worried." Holmes said, "He's determined to prove you innocent, and told me about the night of the murder, when he claimed to be with you. You are friends with him, correct?"

"In a manner of speaking" Kirkland responded, "I raised the boy."

"You raised him?" Holmes repeated, "Is he a relative?"

Kirkland stiffened, "I'd very much prefer not to talk about it."

Holmes nodded, "Very well. Could you tell us what happened that night, then?"

Kirkland stared at Holmes a few seconds before he sighed, "I suppose I haven't got anything to lose, do I? No. No I don't. What Alfred told you wasn't the entire truth…it was the truth as far as he was concerned, but it isn't what actually happened. Yes. I was with Alfred that night, and yes, I did take my horse out for a ride to the Archduke's residence. Yes, I was there on the night of the murder, but I did not kill the man."

"According to Jones you were drunk"

"No, I was just pretending" Kirkland responded.

"Why would you want to pretend you were drunk?" Holmes asked.

"The Archduke…was a terrible man." Kirkland said, shaking his head, "Some years ago, I entrusted him with a secret of mine. He was a wonderful actor, really, and completely tricked me into believing he was an honest, trustworthy man. We parted ways, I never expecting to see him again. So imagine my surprise when he showed up on my doorsteps a few months ago, demanding entrance.

Initially, I was pleased to see him. We had been somewhat close, and I invited him in without second thought. However, he made his intentions clear soon enough, and brought up the secret which I entrusted him with, demanding compensation for keeping it for me. I was furious and threw him out of my residence. I threatened him, I won't deny it, but thought that the threats were enough to keep his mouth sealed. However, only last week did I receive a message from him, demanding I come see him. He claimed he had amassed evidence, and was going to release my secret to the world. If I wanted to make one last plea to him, he would see me, Friday night, the night of the murder, at midnight. Al was with me, and I didn't want him to know what was going on. He'd worry about it, and probably do something terribly rash…He's still such a child. So I suggested we drink to help put ourselves to sleep. He was reluctant at first, but I soon convinced him. I pretended to be drunk, and managed to chase him to bed. After he left, I took my horse and left for the Archduke's residence."

"What time did you arrive at the Archduke's residence?" Holmes asked.

"Well, I left mine around 11:30. The ride is usually 20, maybe 30 minutes, so I'd say around midnight. Perhaps a little earlier."

"And what happened once you got there?"

Kirkland scowled, "I met the Archduke in his study. He had some papers which he said he would release to the press the next day…I was furious. Who did that _bastard_ think he was? We got in an argument…and while it never became physical, I would have _loved_ to slit that bloody self-serving traitor's throat. After much yelling, we finally reached an agreement of sorts, and I left. The next morning, he was dead."

"What time did you leave?"

Kirkland shrugged, "I'm not entirely sure. The Archduke was very much alive when I left, so I suppose it must have been before one. I returned home, and actually got drunk before passing out on the rug where Al had left me."

"When the police searched you, they were able to find the key to the Archduke's study on your person, isn't that right?" Holmes asked.

Kirkland's large brows furrowed slightly, "Yes they did. I've got no idea how it got there…it was in the pocket of my coat, but I have no memory ever of taking the key much less putting it in my pocket."

Holmes nodded slightly, "Very well. So Jones knew nothing of this?"

"No"

"Sir Kirkland" Holmes asked, "How did you meet the Archduke?"

Kirkland shrugged, "We're both nobles, right? It's a small world, so would it really be surprising that we knew each other?"

"He is several rankings above you", Holmes retorted, "So yes, it would be somewhat surprising."

"Believe what you will" Kirkland replied, "But that is how we met. Through various connections."

"Why did you decide to tell him this secret you are so determined to keep from the world?" Mycroft suddenly spoke up, staring intently at the prisoner.

"Again, I thought he was a trustworthy man."

"Sir Kirkland" Holmes was frowning slightly, "I don't suppose you would be so kind as to tell us what your secret is, would you?"

"It wouldn't be a secret if the world knew."

"I suppose not." Holmes was still frowning as he rose, "Well, thank you. We'll see what we can do with what you have provided us with."

Kirkland nodded, watching the three. "One thing, Sir Kirkland" Holmes said, pausing, "How old are you?"

"23. Why?"

"Nothing.: Holmes said, leaving the room, "I was just curious."

* * *

The three returned to their carriage in silence, Holmes and Mycroft staring out the windows, and Watson, knowing it would be useless to even attempt a conversation with the two, also contemplating the evidence they had gathered.

"Mycroft" Holmes said, looking sideways at the other, "You will be able to get us into the scene of the crime; the Archduke's house, correct?"

The other nodded, "We could go there now, if you would like."

"That would certainly be most agreeable…I suppose the police have already ransacked the place?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Mycroft said, "They conducted their investigation on the murder, almost four days ago."

"Already four days old!" Holmes shook his head, "Most of the evidence has most likely already been trashed at the hands of those cattle…ah well. We shall see what we can discover, no?"

* * *

The Archduke's residence was huge. A large drive gave way to a giant manor, complete with a magnificent garden. For the most part, it was deserted. The culprit of the crime had already been named, so the police had moved on, leaving the scene and the empty house to its current owners.

"I don't think there is much we can find here" Holmes admitted, "The police have most likely already destroyed any useful evidence with their own hands…nonetheless."

The carriage parked a ways from the mansion, and the group of three got out, moving slowly towards the mansion as Holmes examined the ground below them, "Pity" he finally said, shaking his head, "It has rained recently, and with all the comings and goings of the police, any indication of who might have come here has been lost." he continued to walk slowly up the drive, with Watson and Mycroft trailing him. Every now and then he would stop, then shake his head, as if frustrated and continue on. Eventually, the group finally made it up to the door of the mansion, but before they could knock, it burst open.

A giant stood in the doorway. His hair was pale, almost white, and his eyes, violet, seemed almost blank. Probably the most prominent feature of his face, however, was his nose. Like the man, it was large, and somewhat crooked. He caught sight of the three men, and smiled at them, a childish yet somehow frightening expression. A white scarf was wrapped around his neck, and he hitched it up before inclining his head slightly and walking past them, shoving Mycroft slightly as he left.

"What a strange man…" Watson murmured, watching his retreating back.

Holmes nodded, staring intently at him before turning back to the door. A woman had appeared in the doorway, apparently following the giant, and upon noticing Holmes, Watson, and Mycroft smiled politely.

"I'm sorry sirs" she said, curtsying slightly. She was a beautiful woman, an Indian with dark hair, eyes, and skin. "May I help you?"

"Yes", Mycroft smiled at the girl, "We're here to investigate some finer details on the death of the Archduke."

"The Archduke?" the girl sounded somewhat surprised, "I was under the impression that that case had already been closed. It was a terrible affair too…" her voice was rich and deep, heavily accented and smooth.

"Yes." Mycroft nodded, "But there has been evidence that the wrong man might have been convicted. We're just here to tie up any possible loose ends."

"Very well" the girl shrugged, stepping back and allowing the men in, "But please, be quite. Madame is ill and has not quite recovered from the shock of this event…she is sleeping now, and I would much rather prefer you not wake her."

"Thank you, and don't worry" Mycroft said, "We will stay quite."

"I suppose you would like to see the Archduke's study?" the girl asked, leading the way, "There's still some blood where he lay…"

They followed the girl down the corridor into a large study. Like the rest of the house, it was magnificent, with a large desk and a thick, luxurious carpet. Holmes paused at the entrance of the room, looking about, before turning to the girl, "I'm sorry to bother you" he said, "But could you give us a bit of background on the Archduke?"

Smiling lightly, the girl nodded, "Yes, of course. The Archduke was an old man…well into his sixties. He was born into wealth and nobility, and as a younger man, served in Afghanistan in the Anglo-Afghan War. He was severely injured during the war, and nearly died. He was shot several times during combat, and was carried off the field by a fellow soldier, a man she remains nameless to this day. Originally, the doctors were confident in his death; but somehow, he made it through. He came back to England, where he has led a rather quite life…there was a period in which he traveled a good deal, and well, I suppose I can talk about it now, since he's already dead, but there was a terrible scandal during his one of his travels"

"What do you mean?"

"I…" the girl flushed and shook her head, "No, no. Never mind. I really shouldn't talk about it. I doubt it pertains to this murder anyways…it was so many years ago…"

"There is no telling what details pertain to the murder and what details do not" Holmes said, "Come, this may prove useful."

"Well…oh I suppose so" the girl looked around, as if to make sure that nobody was listening, "But here, you mustn't tell anyone else? And if you must, you did not hear it from me."

"Very well."

"Ok…well…Again, I don't think it pertains to the murder. It's really nothing more than gossip." the girl took a deep breath, and leaned closer to the three men, her voice dropping down to a little over a whisper, "The Archduke was not a man of morals. Perhaps it was his position, perhaps it was the time he served in Afghanistan, perhaps it was the injuries he received, but the Archduke always considered himself above the laws that governed his fellow man. The poor Madame…he cheated on her so many times. He was very handsome in his youth, and horribly charming. Women fell easily for him, what with his stunning looks and charms. Of course, he always managed to forget that he was married, but they found out eventually…" she shook her head, her expression darkening, "There was an incident in one of his travels…he was in Russia, and met a beautiful woman there. Naturally, he went about seducing her, not interested in much more than a one-night fling. It took a while, but soon she consented, and he had his fun, dumping her almost immediately thereafter. However, he failed to realize that the woman was one of power, or of higher standing. Which one, I am not sure. She had a brother that was to be feared, and he soon found out about the entire affair."

"Do you mean the woman was a noble, or just wealthy?" Holmes asked.

The girl shrugged, "Again, I don't know. Either way, the brother, for whatever reason, was beyond the control of the government. Perhaps he was a master criminal? Again, I have no idea. I don't think the brother would have known…save the fact that the woman became pregnant. The child died, a stillborn, but the brother was still furious. Ever since that incident, the Archduke has been on the run, and actually has been under a false name for years. I don't know why, but only recently has he come out of hiding…You saw that man that left the house as you came in?"

"The giant? Yes"

"That was the brother."

"He is an intimidating man…I can see why the Archduke would be frightened." Holmes said.

The girl nodded, "He was looking for the Archduke…" she shuddered slightly, "Did you know, when he came in, I swear the entire temperature of the house dropped…I told him the Archduke was dead, and well, he got this _creepy_ expression. He said that he knew the archduke was dead, he just wanted to see the body."

"He wanted to see the body…?"

"Yea…Like I said, he was a scary guy…" the girl responded, looking uneasy, "I mean, he had this really, really freaky laugh…actually, it wasn't even a laugh. It was more of just a weird sound…"

"I see…" Holmes said, frowning slightly before turning his attention back to the room, "Do you know anything about the night of the murder?" he asked, examining the doorway.

"Yes" the girl nodded, "I was working late that night, and was just about to retire to my quarters when a loud knock came from the door. It was Sir Kirkland, demanding entrance. He was quite angry, and though I told him that it was too late, and he'd have to come by tomorrow, he pushed by me, claiming that the Archduke had asked to see him."

"Did he have any evidence of this?" Holmes asked.

The girl shrugged, "He mentioned a note, but he never showed me one. Either way, he was much stronger than me, and simply shoved me aside, before storming off to the Archduke's study. I followed him to the study, but he slammed the door in my face. I didn't want to get involved in a fight between the two men, so I waited outside. The fight escalated…soon, they were yelling and cussing at each other. There was a bit of scuffling, some curses, then Sir Kirkland reappeared at the door, red-faced and panting. He glared at me a second, before storming off. I was curious as to what had transpired between the two, but I knew that the Archduke in a foul mood was a terrible thing to deal with. So, instead of asking him, I went to bed, and woke up early the next morning, startled by Anagha's screams…"

"Who is Anagha?" Holmes interrupted.

"Ah!" the girl smiled, "Anagha is my older sister. She came with me from India to work for the Archduke. Currently, she's tending to the Madame."

"I see" Holmes nodded, "Fine then. Please continue."

"Ok" the girl paused a second, recalling where she had been, "Anyways, I was awoken by Anagha's screams, and rushed out of bed, using her voice to guide me. She was by the Archduke's room, and as I watched, she, with the help of John the butler, forced the door down. We all rushed inside, only to find the Archduke, dead, his brains blown out by a large, bloody pipe that the murder had dropped. It…it was awful. I passed out, and when I came to, the place was swarming with police. I told them my story, and they went to go confront Sir Kirkland."

"And later found the key on his person and his prints on the murder weapon" Holmes finished.

The girl nodded, "There's only one key to the room, and the key is the only way to lock the room."

"So you believe it would be safe to say that nobody else entered the room after Sir Kirkland left" Holmes said.

"Yes…as you can see, this study is several stories up. There is one main window, but it was locked, and showed no sign of forced entry…the door is the only plausible entrance to the room, and the key is the only way to lock and unlock the door."

"I see…" Holmes murmured, finishing his inspection of the doorway and moving onto the rest of the room, "Could you tell me where the body lay?"

"Yes. It was behind the desk. He was in his chair and everything…" the girl said, indicating towards the desk. Holmes nodded, inspecting the ground closely as he inched towards the desk. After several minutes he reached the desk, which had been cleared of almost everything, save a large bloodstain.

"I'm sorry" the girl suddenly apologized, frowning slightly, "But the police have already cleaned up here…I doubt you'll find anything."

"Undoubtedly" Holmes responded, shrugging, "Nonetheless…" he turned to the girl, "How was the body positioned?"

"It was slumped over the desk" the girl responded, shrugging. "He was still in his chair, and his arms and head were on the desk."

Holmes nodded, taking a few more minutes to examined the desk before straightening up, "Would you mind if I examined the rest of the mansion?" he asked.

"Help yourself" the girl responded, "There's nobody here left save me and the Madame. However, please don't go into the Madame's room. She's terribly ill now…"

"Shame" Holmes said, looking up sharply, "What is wrong with her? My friend here is a doctor and may be able to help her."

"I haven't the faintest idea" the girl shrugged, "We have a doctor looking after her…her symptoms are terrible, really. She can't move her lower body, and her buttock looks just terribly thin."

"How horrible" Holmes said, shaking his head, "How long has she been suffering?"

"Oh for a while now." The girl said, "Over a year…and we can't do anything about it!"

"Perhaps it's contagious?" Holmes suggested, "Has anyone else in the household suffered such conditions?"

"Now that you mention it…" the girl frowned slightly, "I must have forgotten it in all the chaos. The Archduke had also been suffering similar symptoms before death….it wasn't as severe as Madame, but existent nonetheless."

"Perhaps it is contagious then" Holmes said, "I certainly hope the doctor is able to find some cure soon…in the meantime, I shall take advantage of your offer, and conduct a thorough investigation of this house."

Holmes nodded lightly at the girl before stepping out of the room, leaving Watson, his brother, and the girl in a rather awkward silence.

* * *

**Ehehe~i wonder who did it...ahh...thanks for everyone's reviews so far! they provide much needed motivation! and thanks to those who sent me the link to the other SH crossover. It's def. MUCH closer to the actual SH style that Connan Doyle wrote in, but I really don't liek writing things from first person POV soooo~yea. -3- fail author is fail. **

**again, reviews are much appreciated!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Ah~not much to say! Thanks for all the amazing reviews! ahaha~i wonder if anyone's figured out what happened yet....possibly, but i don't kno? **

**Cookies to whomever figures out what actually happened first! :D I am actually really curious to hear what ppl think's happened...I'll leave a hint at the end of each chapter. This hint is very very vauge, and is actually somewhat of a stretch....oh well~**

* * *

After several hours, Holmes finally returned from his investigations of the house, his face serious, and pulled slightly into a concentrated frown. Without a word to Watson or Mycroft, he led the way to the carriage and hopped in.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality" Watson said, bowing slightly to the young Indian girl.

She smiled, a beautiful expression, and shook her head, "No. It was no problem. I wish you the best of luck…perhaps you will be able to solve your case."

"I certainly hope so" Watson muttered as he turned around, and following Mycroft back to the carriage.

"Where to now, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked once everyone had clambered into the vehicle.

"The morgue" Holmes responded without even looking up at his brother, "I would like to see the dead man's body."

"Very well" Mycroft nodded, and leaned out the window, yelling something at the driver. The driver yelled something in return, and Mycroft drew back into the carriage, just as it lurched forward, carrying the party of three to their location.

* * *

"He was a rather large man" Holmes commented, looking at the corpse laid out on the table before him.

Mycroft and Watson nodded silently. The Archduke had indeed been a large man. He might have been very handsome in his youth, but age had taken its toll on him. His hair was dark, and face, smashed in by the pipe, unrecognizable.

"He was smashed across the face first with the pipe." Mycroft said, pointing at the man's front, "Then, when he slumped forward, the murderer slammed him across the back of the head, finally killing him."

"These are very severe injuries" Holmes muttered, "The Archduke was clearly a very strong man. He was initially attacked from the front, correct?"

"Yes"

"Then he must have seen the attack coming" Holmes said, leaning over the body.

"Indeed" Watson was peering over Holmes' shoulder, "The person who attacked him must have been of substantial strength to take him down."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well isn't it obvious?" Watson asked, shrugging, "The Archduke himself is very strong, and he was attacked from the front. If that was the case, then he would have seen the attack coming, and had a chance to evade it…but the other person was able to overpower him."

"Yet Sir Kirkland showed no sign of a struggle" Holmes said.

"Well…yes. Actually, you're right" Watson nodded, looking somewhat perplexed, "Perhaps a surprise attack then? The Archduke wasn't expecting it, and the murderer struck, stunning him before killing him?"

"Highly unlikely" Holmes responded, "The argument between the Archduke and Sir Kirkland was very heated, from what the servant reported. Have you ever been in a heated argument where you just looked away from the other?"

"But then perhaps Sir Kirkland wasn't the killer."

"Exactly" Holmes nodded and straightened, his face grim , "Well brother, I think we are finished here. I just had a few lose ends to tie up, and my suspicious have been cleared."

"So you've already figured it out!?" Watson cried looking at his companion.

"Almost" Holmes said, "Do I think Sir Kirkland is innocent? Undoubtedly. However there are still too many questions left…Come. Perhaps an evening in my own quarters will help clear up these unanswered questions."

"And naturally, you won't tell me anything" Watson grumbled, following Holmes outside into the carriage nonetheless.

* * *

They had returned to their quarters with no incident, Mycroft leaving them once they had reached their destination.

"Contact me tomorrow, ok?" Mycroft had asked before leaving, "Knowing him, if he gets too caught up in this case, it will be impossible to talk to him."

Holmes had retired to his chambers almost instantly upon returning, and Watson, not willing to sit in a smoke-filled room, went out for a walk. He wandered about London with no real destination in mind, turning the case over and over. None of it made any sense. How was Holmes so confident Kirkland hadn't done it? Everything pointed to the man…everything seemed to indicate that Kirkland had been there the night of the murder, and furthermore had committed the murder.

Watson gritted his teeth in frustration. How had Holmes been able to solve the case so clearly? Years of living with the man left Watson with still no answer, and doubting that one was about to present itself, he turned back in the direction of Baker Street.

* * *

"You're back" Holmes called from the armchair, not bothering to look up as Watson re-entered the apartment, "I must say…I've still got some questions concerning this case."

"Really?" Watson asked, somewhat surprised, "Care to share them? What part of the case is so confusing that one such as yourself is unable to solve it?"

"Not even so much the case, but the man himself, Sir Kirkland" Holmes responded, "His story, everything about him just does not make sense."

"What do you mean?"

"Surely, you remember our conversation with him, no?" Holmes said, "Well, as you know, Kirkland is a rather lowly ranked noble. The Archduke outstrips him in ranking by far. Yet, why would the Archduke blackmail someone of lower class? The Archduke is one of the highest rankings, and is Kirkland's senior by probably several decades. Yet, Sir Kirkland was confident he could keep him silent. Also, recall what Kirkland said. He claimed to be shocked to see the Archduke again. Yet if they were so close that Kirkland would be willing to reveal the secret he has so adamantly hidden from the rest of us, why would he be surprised to see him again? How did Kirkland even know the Archduke in the first place? I simply do not believe his story that they me through connections is plausible."

"Why didn't you ask him these things while we were talking to him?" Watson asked.

"He was clearly on guard." Holmes responded, "Apart from that story, I don't think we could have gotten any more truth from the man. He's a strange man too. He's clearly been in tougher situations, but he's young."

"What do you mean tougher situations?" Watson asked, confused.

"He's not new to being interrogated, and possibly under much more strenuous conditions."

"How did you deduce that?"

"Simple. His composure. I didn't press him on the issues that I wanted answers on simply because I knew it would be pointless. He's been through the process before, and it wouldn't be easy, if possible, to break him." Holmes' expression darkened, "But I looked through the last fifty years of criminal records. There has been no trace of an Arthur Kirkland in the criminal world either."

"So what does that mean?"

"It may mean a number of things. Perhaps he was a criminal but never has been caught. Then why would he be used to the interrogation tactics? Perhaps he was in the army and served as a POW, during which time he underwent extreme questioning. Yet there is no record of a Sir Arthur Kirkland in the army either. Perhaps he has been interrogated by a third party, under illegal circumstances. Yet you know I have ears in the criminal world, through those wonderful children, and even they have never heard the name. So then what?" Holmes stood and began pacing the room furiously, "What secret would a young man, in the prime of his life, have that is so damaging? What kind of power does he control to believe himself to be powerful enough to stop the Archduke? Why would the Archduke pay him any mind? Why are the two close? And furthermore…" he looked up, his dark eyes slightly hooded, "There are three things one must have in order to commit a crime. Means, motive, and opportunity."

"Very well." Watson said, "Does Kirkland have any of these?"

Holmes' pacing seemed to increase, "No." he said, "But the real murderer had them. Means was not difficult to figure out. Same goes for opportunity. As for motive…there, I am lost. I believe it has something to do with this secret Kirkland is so determined to keep…but then how would the actual murderer know about it? None of it adds up Watson. None of it."

Watson shrugged, "What are you going to do about it? If you can't figure it out, how am I supposed to be able to?"

Holmes stopped his pacing, looking over at Watson with a familiar gleam in his eyes, "I think I know…"

Watson stared at him a few seconds before gritting his teeth and shaking in head, "Holmes, you know I hate doing that…"

"We don't have a choice."

"Couldn't we.."

"No."

"How about-"

"No. We are breaking into the Kirkland residence tonight. Meet me there at midnight."

* * *

The Kirkland residence was rather large. With giant trees and a large driveway behind a wrought-iron fence, the entire residence screamed age. The iron gate had been left open, and the two men, wearing all black, slipped in, Holmes leading.

The house itself was rather large, and after trying both doors and some of the windows, the men found a window that had been left open. Pushing it up, they slipped into the darkened, silent house.

"What exactly are we looking for again?" Watson hissed into his companion's ear.

"Anything that will tell us about our dear Sir Kirkland." Holmes responded, leading the way. He had brought a dark lantern, and shined it over the room, revealing what seemed to be the living room. It was, like the rest of the house, large an empty. Watson frowned. The servant's quarters were located outside the main house, so the house was completely deserted. What must it be like to live here every day? All alone in this vast darkness…to go to sleep with no light, no other companion in the house…

"For such a young man, Sir Kirkland was certainly very isolated" Holmes murmured, "He's obviously rather wealthy, he's handsome, young, and a noble…women should be flocking to him. Yet, look. This house is completely empty. No sign of any other save Kirkland…no sign of parties, socialization…I wonder why."

They proceeded forward in silence, through the living room and into a large kitchen. The entire house was kept meticulously clean, almost to the point where everything looked brand new. From the kitchen, they went into a dining room, then a parlor…it took a while, but so far, they hadn't found anything too strange. There was a library, crammed with books, and a study, with a magnificent desk and rather comfortable looking chair, but nothing that could indicate what was so strange about Sir Kirkland. After looking in the study, the pair came across a large door, wooden and heavy. It was locked, but after a few minutes of Watson holding the light and Holmes jiggling around with his lock-pick, the door swung open, protesting and groaning. Watson shone the lantern into the doorway, revealing a set of stone stairs.

Looking briefly at each other, Holmes took the lantern and led the way down the stairs into what appeared to be a large, stone basement. There was a large space cleared out, with an intricately drawn circle of sorts on the floor. "What is that..?"

"I'm not sure" Holmes admitted, leaning over and running a hand over the circle, "It looks like some sort of pagan magic ritual of some sorts…" he inspected it for a few more seconds before straightening and crossing over to a corner of the room. Several boxes and other large objects were stacked around the room, a stark contrast to the cleanliness of the rest of the house. Large sheets draped were draped over the objects, obscuring them from view. Holmes seized one of the sheets and tugged, sending dust and cobwebs flying everywhere. The sheets were an off-color white, discolored and worn from age, and Holmes dropped them to the side, turning his attention to the objects under the sheets. Several large portraits as well as some large objects lay before the two men, and as Holmes shone the light over one of the portraits, Watson let out a soft cry of surprise. The man frowning back from the portrait was undoubtedly Sir Kirkland.

"Holmes this…"

"Yes…" Holmes moved the lantern over the piece, revealing more of the painting. The man was sitting, with a young boy on his lap. Another boy stood to the side, a hand on Sir Kirkland's elbow. The two boys had similar faces, one with blue eyes and the other with violet. The blue eyed boy had a bright smile, and a single strand of hair, sticking up at a strange angle. The violet-eyed boy was smiling softly, a shy, hesitant expression. A single strand of hair also stood atop the violet eyed boy's head, but rather than sticking up, it seemed to curl. "His sons perhaps?" Watson suggested, peering over Holmes' upraised arm, "But those boys…don't they look familiar? I can't shake the feeling I've seen them before."

"Indeed" Holmes nodded, moving the light further down, "Allan Ramsay" he noted, reading the signature at the bottom of the portrait, "Wait. How can that be possible?"

"What do you mean?" Watson asked.

"Allan Ramsay was a famous portrait painter. But he's dead."

"So? He could have painted this right before he died."

"He died in the 1780s."

"Wait…what?" Watson's confusion was evident on his face, "Perhaps this is another Allan Ramsay?"

"No." Holmes seemed as confused at Watson, "This is his art style. Perhaps this is one of Kirkland's ancestors? But the semblance is uncanny."

"Indeed…" Watson nodded, before turning his attention to the boys, "And those children, don't they look terribly familiar?"

"Yes. That blue-eyed boy especially…I can't-" Holmes paused, the frown on his face deepening, "But that can't be right."

"What can't be right?"

"Remember what Sir Kirkland said about Mr. Jones? "I raised him" This child…the face structure, eye color, everything really, is exactly the same as Jones…and didn't Jones have a brother? That boy, Mattie, I think is what he called him. He came in with the Frenchman. But how is any of this possible? Sir Kirkland claimed to only be 23, and looks about that old, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes."

"And Jones, he looked in his late teens, perhaps early twenties."

"Yes, I would estimate somewhere in that age group."

"So overall, between the two of them, there could not have been more than a 5 years' difference." Holmes drew back, staring intently at the young blue-eyed boy, "Yet look. Here we have a painting that is undoubtedly Sir Kirkland, with two young boys, whom share a striking semblance to our Mr. Jones and his brother. Yet between the Sir Kirkland in this portrait and the child that looks like a younger Mr. Jones in this portrait, there must be a difference of at least fifteen years, probably more!"

"But how is that possible?" Watson asked, "Perhaps Jones is younger than he looks? Or perhaps Kirkland lied about his age?"

"Even then, the difference is not one of fifteen years." Holmes said, "And then we have the problem of the date of this portrait. Here. Let us look through more of this. Perhaps we will find something that will provide an explanation for this phenomenon…"

The two men began to look through more of the portraits. Each of them depicted Sir Kirkland, some alone, some with several children, but most with the blue-eyed boy. "He certainly seemed to have many children." Watson observed as he studied a picture of Kirkland holding an even younger child with the same blue eyes and blonde hair as the child in the original portrait, "But that blue-eyed boy seemed to be a particular favorite."

"Indeed" Holmes nodded. As they continued to look through the portraits, the boy seemed to grow, changing from a tiny thing barely reaching Sir Kirkland's knee to a beaming boy at his waist, to a young, tall man, almost the same height as Sir Kirkland.

"Look at this" Holmes called to Watson, holding the lantern over one of the portraits of the blue-eyed boy at the same height of Sir Kirkland. The semblance between the boy and Jones was undeniable by this time, and Watson approached the portrait somewhat confused.

"What about it?" Watson asked, studying the elaborate painting.

"In all the previous portraits their expressions were slightly different." Holmes responded, "They looked happy. Carefree almost. Sir Kirkland had truly a peaceful expression, and that boy just looked so happy. Yet here…they look tense."

Watson studied the expressions more closely, and nodded. The boy had a slight frown tugging at his lips, and instead of the previous clinginess he had exhibited in the previous portraits, he stood by the side of Sir Kirkland's chair, hands by his sides, refusing to touch the man or the chair he sat in. He was stiff, as was Kirkland, his face also pulled into a small scowl and hands clenched tightly together. In the previous paintings, the love between the man and the boy was obvious. In this one however, the tension between the two seemed almost tangible, their expressions both of disdain, perhaps even anger.

"I wonder what happened." Watson asked, looking up at Holmes who was examining another portrait. When he got no response, Watson crawled over to where Holmes knelt. "What is it?"

It was another portrait, this one of Sir Kirkland and not the blue-eyed boy that had occupied nearly all the other portraits but of the violet-eyes boy, also grown. Sir Kirkland was slumped in the chair, his expression weary, his face tired. He stared listlessly from the portrait, and the violet-eyed boy stood by him, a hand on his shoulder and a worried frown on his face.

"What happened to the other boy?" Watson asked, "And what happened to Kirkland?"

"I do not know" Holmes responded, frowning slightly. There were a few more portraits which the two men looked through, none of which contained the blue-eyed boy. "He seems to have just disappeared. Gone. Perhaps they had a fight, and parted ways?"

Holmes was silent, staring at the portraits for a second, before he started, "Yes! Remember what Jones said? They had some sort of a conflict when he was younger. If this boy truly is Jones, though I honestly do not see how that is possible, then that could be what happened. Kirkland raised Jones. As you can see from the portraits, he really was a doting father…he seemed to have had quite a few children, but Jones seemed to be a favorite. There was a period, however, when Kirkland was not with Jones. That would explain the sudden change from that little boy to that young man. You know how young men are, headstrong, brash. Jones in particular was rather obstinate. They had an argument of sorts, a long and bitter one. In the end, Jones, for whatever reason, left Kirkland. Look at these portraits, the ones without Jones. Kirkland was devastated. Jones left his brother under Kirkland's care, and his brother, who seems much softer-spoken than him, tried to comfort Kirkland. But still…" Holmes seemed to sag slightly, "This does not explain the date difference. How could Kirkland have posed for a portrait when he wasn't even alive? Is that man just a relative of Kirkland, and not the man himself? But then who are those boys? And why do they share such a semblance to Mr. Jones and his brother? Are these portraits just fake? This original style is most definitely Ramsay's but perhaps it is just a very good fake…I have no way to test it here, but it seems original. Hullo there!"

Holmes had turned the original portrait of Kirkland and shining the light over it, revealed a date scrawled on the back. "1763" he said, "Well, this is in the time period of Ramsay…but not Kirkland. Here…let's look at the dates of these."

"1726"

"1700"

"1771"

"1725"

"1755"

"1760"

"1775" Watson turned over the portrait. It was the portrait with the blue-eyed boy and Kirkland, both looking distressed.

"1783" Holmes responded, also looking at the portrait he held, the one with the violet-eyed boy comforting Kirkland. He laid the portrait down, and stood, gazing about the room. There were several large boxes, and a smaller, wooden box stacked on top of one. Holmes lifted up the box, his frown never leaving his face as he examined it.

"It's locked." He observed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a lock pick. He began messing with the lock, but before he could actually work the box open, there was a loud pounding from the upstairs.

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**Allan Ramsay was a famous portrait painter in the 1700s...he's famous for that one painting he did of King George III that's in all our US hist. testbooks....**

**Sometimes i feel so bad for watson....poor man. **

**remember, reviews are love~and kudos to the first person that figured out what actually happened! :D **

**Hint: The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire. The logic Holmes' used in solving that case. (no. there are no vampires or anything supernatural..except for the nations in this story) **


	5. Chapter 5

**Ok~this chapter is slightly shorter than the others, but it seemed a good place to break..-3- thanks a million for all your amazing reviews! :D **

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Holmes and Watson looked at each other. The pounding was coming from the front door, and ceased after some time.

"Why" Watson hissed, "would someone knock on the front door if nobody-"

He was interrupted by another series of the pounding, then footsteps. Somebody was coming down the stairs from the second story to the first floor. "We're in the basement" Holmes reminded Watson, keeping his voice barely above a whisper, "We should be fine unless they come down here. In the meantime, let us see if we cannot perhaps catch who is here, and who was upstairs."

Watson nodded, and the two men proceeded back up the stone stairs silently, with Holmes leading. The basement door had been left open a crack, and they could clearly hear the front door swing open.

"Ivan, what are you doing here?" the voice was undoubtedly that of Mr. Jones. It sounded tired as it had last time they heard it, but was now also laced with suspicion.

"I wanted to talk. It wasn't that hard to find you, as it would only be reasonable that you were staying at Arthur's house, no?" the other voice was foreign, and heavily accented.

"Whatever. Do you want to come in?" Alfred asked.

"Da. That would be much appreciated."

There was a sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen and the door slamming shut. The footsteps continued, then stopped as chairs were drawn out.

"So why are you here anyways?" Jones asked.

"Why am I here or why I am England?" Ivan responded pleasantly.

"Both I suppose."

"I am here because, as I already explained to you, I needed to talk to you. I am in England for revenge."

"Revenge?" Alfred said, "Revenge against who?"

"The murdered man." Ivan said, "The Archduke."

"So you killed him!" there was a scraping of one of the chairs as someone stood, "You killed him and Artie's taking the fall! You scumbag! Do you realize how much of a problem you've caused! We've had to get humans involved in this whole affair!"

"Humans?" Ivan sounded interested, "Who?"

"A consulting detective, a man named Sherlock Holmes, his assistant; I think his name was James Watson and the detective's brother, Mycroft." Alfred said, the anger evident in his voice, "That's three humans! Three! And the detective hasn't agreed to take on this case, unless I tell him about us!"

"Then go to another detective."

"I've tried. Don't you see?" Alfred said, "He's supposedly the most brilliant detective there is, and he's the only one that even considered the case! But it doesn't matter now, does it? _You _killed the Archduke, and unfortunately, we can't kill you either, so now Artie's government is going to have to hang one of Artie's people, an innocent, so we can save Artie!"

"Whoever said I killed the man?"

"And now-wait, what?" Alfred stopped midrant, "What…I thought you just said…"

"I came for revenge" Ivan repeated, "But unfortunately, I didn't get it. Someone beat me to it."

"So you didn't kill…"

"Niet. And I am most disappointed in it too…that ублюдок, he _deserved _to die. But at my hand. He wronged my sister, and I deserved the revenge someone took from me."

"Woa. Wait a sec" Alfred sounded shocked, "That guy had the nerves to wrong _Natayla_? Damn, he's got guts. She's a freaking psycho bitch, you know that?"

"Why would I be seeking revenge if someone tried to harm Natayla?" Ivan asked, "He went after Katayshua."

"Who is…?"

"Ukraine"

"Oh yea. The one with the huge rack, right?"

"Yes. Her."

"What'd he do?" Alfred asked.

"He slept with her."

"Really?! Damn he's lucky…"

"Don't you even dare" Ivan growled.

"Hey, hey" Alfred responded. There was another scraping noise and a creak as he sat back down, "I'm sorry. Don't mean to offend you. But…" Alfred paused, "I don't believe you. You must have killed the man."

"Why would I lie?" Ivan responded pleasantly, "I have nothing to fear from killing him. I know the English government can't touch me…so why would I lie?"

"But..that…Well, who did it then?"

"I don't know. I assumed your dear England had done it."

"No…no, he couldn't have…"

"Did he know the man?"

"The Archduke?" Alfred was silent for a few seconds, "Yes. Yes he did. I'm not sorry for the Archduke, let me say that straight up. He was a terrible man. Did you know, he completely tricked Artie into telling him about us?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Artie told me about it almost a month before the murder in a telegram. Apparently, the Archduke had served in the Anglo-Afghan War for some time, and fought next to Artie" Alfred said, "During one battle, the Archduke was severely injured. Artie, not wanting to let a man that had served him die, dragged him to safety. Once out of enemy range, Artie dragged the Archduke to the doctors…but they told him he was too late. They were confident the Archduke was done for, and told Artie such. Apparently, the Archduke had fought nobly in Afghanistan, though, and Artie, wishing to repay him, told him the truth about himself."

"He told him?"

"Yea" Alfred replied, "What, have you never done that? I know I've told every soldier that I can who dies on the field the truth about myself. They gave their lives up for me. It's the least I can do."

"I suppose" Ivan said, "Very well. So Arthur told the dying Archduke the truth."

"Yep" Alfred said, "Anyways. So Arthur left, confident the guy was dead, but miraculously, or not, he didn't die. He survived somehow, and came back to England, where he spent many years traveling. After some travels though, he had stirred up some trouble, and had to go into hiding for some time."

"I know" Ivan said lowly, "I was the one after him."

"The Archduke tried to blackmail Artie, using the secret, to ensure his safety. He wanted complete immunity in all nations, and the right to do anything he wanted, with no consequence." Alfred sighed, "That's all I know. He telegrammed me about that, but nothing more."

"So Arthur would have a motive to kill the Archduke" Ivan noted.

"Well, yes technically." Alfred sounded defensive, "But he didn't! He wouldn't kill one of his own people…you know how painful that is."

"Indeed." Ivan said, "But who did commit the murders then?"

"And that's why I turned to that detective" Jones responded, "But he won't help unless I tell him the truth…"

"Well? What are you going to do?"

"I…I don't know" Alfred admitted, "I'm seriously thinking of telling him. Chances are, he won't believe me anyways…he's said to be a man of logic, and well, the idea of personifications of nations isn't exactly logical. Plus, he's rumored to keep silent if you ask him to. And who would believe him if he told anyways? I mean, c'mon, how reasonable does this sound, "Arthur Kirkland is the personification of England" or "Alfred F. Jones is the personification of America"? Everyone would think he was crazy."

"True." Ivan said, "I don't care either way. Tell him or don't."

"I know you don't care." Alfred said, exasperated, "The problem is-"

There was a pounding on the door once more, and the scrape of chairs, "It seems like someone else decided to pay me a little visit." Alfred said, his voice fading slightly as he went to open the door, "Ah! Francis and Mattie!"

"Hello, Alfred" a voice responded.

Watson started, looking at Holmes, who nodded silently. It was the same voice of the Frenchman that had come to drag Alfred away from their apartment the first day they had left him. "I came to visit you…and for goodness sake, we need to talk." The voice continued.

"Fine" their voices increased in volume, and soon they were back in the kitchen again.

"Why is Ivan here?" Francis asked, sounding surprised.

"I was talking to Alfred" Ivan responded, "I certainly hope you won't mind me here." Though a friendly suggestion, there was something in the way the man said the last part of his sentence that made it seem more a threat than anything.

"Er…no." Francis said hurriedly, "Mathieu and I are just here to talk to Alfred." There was more noise as the chairs were pulled out and everyone sat down.

"Now Alfred" Francis began, "You know what I'm here for."

"Yes." The younger man said, sounding bored, "You don't want me to tell Holmes about us."

"Exactly. And so far, I have not extracted a promise from you that you will not tell him."

"Well, I'm going to have to disappoint you once more because you are not getting that promise."

"Alfred!" Francis sounded very distressed, "Are you completely insane?! You can't just tell Holmes about us!"

"And why not?"

"Humans aren't supposed to know about us!" the other hissed, "We're nations! Not humans! My god, you've been around for how many centuries and you don't seem to realize that humans knowing about us may prove somewhat _problematic_?!"

"But we need Holmes' help on this case!" Alfred protested, "He's the only one that can and will do this!"

"We can't tell humans about the nations!" Francis said harshly, "And what, do you think he'd believe you? If you told him who you really were? If you told him who Arthur really was? Do you think he'd believe you if you told him you were the personification of the United States of America, and Arthur was the personification of England?! No! He'd think you were raving mad!"

"Exactly!" Jones said, "He won't believe me, but I'll have told the truth. Humans don't believe such far out claims, and he believes only in scientific fact. He won't acknowledge our presence at all!"

"Just…Alfred…no" Francis sounded terribly frustrated, "You'll make an idiot of yourself. Just don't talk to him."

Holmes and Watson, by now were almost leaning into the slightly opened door, trying to catch every word of the conversation at hand. They didn't hear the soft padding of footsteps that approached the kitchen, nor hear them pause and approach the door. The door was pulled open, and a shy, hesitant face stared down at them, bewilderment spreading across his expressions as he realized who they were.

There was a split second when the two men just stared up at the violet-eyed boy before Holmes swiftly stood, and, clasping a hand to the boy's mouth, forced him to the ground. However, the boy was clearly much stronger than Holmes had anticipated, for, after some struggling, he managed to get his mouth free. Grabbing one of Holmes' wrists, the boy cried out, "AL! AL!"

"Mattie?" the voice came from the dining room where the others were. There was a scraping of chairs and more footsteps, "Mattie, what's-oh. Hello."

Matthew released Holmes' wrist, and the man stood, stepping aside so the nation could rise as well, "Good evening" he replied, nodding his head slightly.

"Indeed" Alfred muttered, crossing over to where the three stood, "So how long have you been here?"

"A while now. Since a little after midnight, give or take ten minutes or so" Holmes responded, shrugging, "Either way. I was here before Ivan came in."

"Before Ivan?" Alfred sighed, "Then I suppose you heard everything? About us being nations, that is."

"I did."

"Well?" Alfred prodded, "Do you believe us?"

"That you're personification of the nations…?" Holmes asked.

"What is this?!"

The four in the kitchen turned to the source of the voice, the blonde Frenchman, "W…what…Alfred…he"

"Yep" Alfred smiled, "Looks like the cat's out of the bag. No point in hiding it now."

"No, this…" Francis looked horrified, "Did he hear?"

"Everything."

Francis stared at the two men a few seconds before closing his eyes and shaking his head, "Alfred…you...You know what we have to do."

"Don't you even think about it." Alfred growled, the grin instantly sliding off his face, "They already know. What's done is done, just let them go."

"I can't. They know too much" the older nation slipped a hand into his right pocket.

"Francis, don't you even think about it…"

"I'm sorry. Alfred, you know, I have no choice…"

Francis whipped out a gun, aiming it straight at Holmes, "I SAID NO!" Alfred roared, launching himself at Holmes. The gun fired, burying a bullet into Alfred's shoulder, just as he tackled Holmes, knocking the man to the ground.

"Alfred! Stop being ridiculous! Please, I don't want to hurt you!" Francis pleaded, "But if you keep acting like a child…"

"Don't you dare call me a fucking child." Alfred responded through gritted teeth, grabbing at his left shoulder in pain. He stood up, shielding Holmes and Watson, "There is no way in hell I'm letting you touch these men. They're the only ones that can save Artie."

"You know Arthur will be fine, regardless they catch the criminal or not" Francis said, "There's no way the government will allow their own nation to hang."

"But it will hurt Artie if an innocent hangs in his name!" Alfred yelled.

"Alfred, you naïve boy" Francis sighed, "How old are you? Almost 200, and you still think that the justice system actually works? Criminals get off all the time. Innocents are hanged just as often. This will just be one more case, one more nameless face to add to the pile."

"No." Alfred shook his head, "I don't care what you say. I won't just sit back and let an innocent person die. That's wrong, and I don't care how ridiculous I'm being, I won't let that happen."

"Would you sacrifice the security of the world for the life of one person?" Francis said, "I don't like killing people either, but we must ensure the security of the world!"

"They won't tell!"

"How can you assure that?"

"Just trust me on this one!!"

"For god's sake, Alfred, I can't!"

"Brother…please" Matthew took a few haltering steps towards Alfred, "He's right you know…Francis doesn't want this either…but, we really don't have much of a choice. I…I'm sorry. I really, really am, but we've got to do this."

"Fuck Mattie" Alfred shook his head, "No…no. They'll keep their mouths shut, they will!"

"We can't trust them on that." Francis looked tired, "Please Alfred. I'll force you if I must."

"Go ahead and try"

Francis stared imploringly at Alfred, who shook his head, gritting his teeth in pain as blood trickled from his bullet wound. Sighing, the older nation seemed to compose himself before he glared up at Alfred, "I'm warning you one last time, Alfred. If you don't step out of the way, we will remove you by force."

"And I already said, go ahead and try, fucking Frenchie."

Francis glared at Alfred a few seconds before tackling him to the floor. Soon, the two nations were rolling about, wrestling.

"Mathieu!" Francis yelled from the pile, struggling against Alfred, "Take care of them now!!"

The violet-eyed nation looked horrified, and stared at the two men before him. Holmes, during the exchange between Alfred and Francis had stood up, and assisted Watson to his feet as well. He was staring at the nations, a look of shock on his usually cold face.

"I…I'm sorry…" Matthew had pulled out a gun and pointed it at the two men. The nation's hands were shaking, "I _hate_ violence so much. Please, I really don't want to do this, you've got to understand…" he was tearing up, his purple eyes misted slightly over.

"NO!" Alfred threw Francis against the wall, and in the same movement, kicked Matthew's knees from under him. Straddling his brother, Alfred turned to the two men, "GET OUT OF HERE!!! NOW!!!"

"Damn it Alfred!" Francis stood up, swaying slightly. Alfred reached out grabbing his ankle and pulling him to the ground.

"GO!!! GET OUT!" Alfred screamed again, struggling to hold Francis and Matthew back.

"We…"

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Watson looked over at his friend, "Let's go" he mumbled, grabbing the other man's wrist and pulling him out of the mansion. The two ran out the door into the cold night, leaving the man that called himself America to deal with his fellow nations.

"Have a goodnight!" Ivan called cheerily, watching Holmes and Watson make their escape before turning back and watching the struggling nations with interest.

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**I love Russia. My friend went to sakura-con and bought me a russia pin~it's so cute! But poor Francis...he's just trying to keep the secret safe. ;A; and yea. alfred and mattie got in a fight. it made me sad too. **

**Again, reviews are love...as for the hint, well, i think i gave a pretty obvious one in this chapter. russia didn't do it. :3**


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm sorry this took so long to come out...;A; i've been sooo hella busy lately. prom's tonight 3 and i have a plane to catch really, really early so i can get to cleveland on time....plus there's the APs and the freaking retarded culminating project to dooooo...grrrr. **

**Okies. enough about my fail life. and actually, somebody figured out who did it~not gonna say who tho 3**

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They ran for a while, not pausing nor talking the entire ride back to their apartment. Once they had reached the haven of their flat, Watson locked the door, and collapsed onto a chair, looking up at Holmes. "This is why I don't like breaking in." He growled, glaring up at the taller man.

Holmes looked at Watson, his face tense, "It's not possible" he said simply.

"What? That those men were…nations?" Watson frowned, "I…I don't know. I mean, think about it. It would explain everything."

"But it's not possible" Holmes shook his head, "It's not possible for, for a single entity to represent the entirety of a nation! It's just…just not possible!"

"But Holmes, if they were nations, that would explain everything." Watson replied, "The portraits were painted by Ramsay. The boy was America, who was raised by England…They don't age like humans do, and that's why they haven't grown. Sir Kirkland was confident he could keep the Archduke quiet because he was England. The Archduke knew him through Afghanistan..."

"But it's just not _possible_" Holmes shook his head and reached into his traveling cloak, drawing out the box that he had been messing with before they had been interrupted.

"You stole that?" Watson asked, sitting up.

"Not stole" Holmes corrected, "I'll give it back eventually." He pulled out his lockpick and got to work, wiggling the piece of metal in the lock. After several minutes, there was finally a resounding _click!_ Holmes pulled the lockpick out, set it aside, and opened the box carefully. Inside, there was a rolled of piece of parchment, lying half-buried in ash. "What is this…?" Holmes muttered, pulling out the parchment carefully, making sure to spill no ash on the floor. He unrolled it, and stared at it a few seconds before handing it to Watson.

Watson took the parchment, his breath hitching as he read the first few words, "In the course of Human events…Holmes" he looked at the other man, "This is…"

"The American Deceleration of Independence, correct." Holmes nodded, "It's been ripped in two. Look"

Sure enough, a thin tear round down the old document, held together by pieces of tape, "Is it an original?" Watson asked.

"It seems to be." Holmes nodded, "Why Sir Kirkland had an original copy of this document is beyond me."

"Holmes" Watson gasped, "Remember the portraits? The first portrait that expressed discomfort between Sir Kirkland and Jones was the portrait done in 1775. By the 1783 one, Jones was gone. 1776 was the date America declared independence! The rift, the conflict that drove those two apart was the America War for Independence!"

"That is, assuming that those men are indeed who they claim to be" Holmes said, his brow furrowed.

"You don't believe they're nations?"

"I'm not sure" Holmes said, sighing and looking at the document he held.

They sat in silence for some time, Holmes' brow furrowed in thought and Watson examining the document. Almost half an hour had passed when there was a sudden pounding from the door.

"Wait here" Holmes instructed Watson and, grabbing his revolver, headed to the door. He was gone for a few minutes before he came back, a worried-looking Mr. Jones trailing behind him.

"Wonderful. You're here too" Jones said, upon seeing Watson, "Please, you two must come with me."

Jones' lip was split, and his shirt sleeve was stained with blood. He winced slightly as he entered the room, but otherwise, showed no indication of pain.

"My good man" Watson hurried over to where the nation stood, "You must let me treat your wounds. I'm a doctor; I can take care of it."

Jones shook his head, "I'm a nation. We don't die like humans do. This won't kill me, and unfortunately, I'm certain Francis and my brother are right behind me. You, on the other hand, can die. I managed to get them pretty good, but they're nations too…they're much stronger than the average human."

"But you're bleeding!"

"I won't die." Jones snapped, "Look. I'm sorry, but we have to get out of here, now. If you really want to help me, you can treat me in the carriage."

"Very well" Watson stepped away from Jones, and quickly crossed over to a large cabinet. From it, he drew some basic medical supplies and threw them into a large bag. He turned back to Jones, who was standing by the doorway, "Well, I'm ready to go. Holmes?"

The other man had been messing about with something on the table, and looked up at Watson, "Yes. Yes, I am ready." He stood, and Watson noticed he held the box in his hands, the lid back on, "I believe this belongs to you." He said as he passed Jones, shoving the box into his arms, "Don't look at it now. We have much more pressing manners at hand, no?"

Jones looked at the box, then nodded, "Yes. C'mon. I need to take you to a safe haven."

"And where would that be?" Holmes asked, pausing to throw a glance at Jones.

"Well, preferably, I would want to get out of here. Francis has the home advantage…his nation is simply across the channel while mine is across the ocean." Jones responded, "But since we aren't able to do that, we'll just have to go into hiding for now."

"So you have no idea?"

"Not necessarily" Jones said, "I've got some connections in England…I am the United States, after all. We're just going to have to call up some of those connections. Now come on. We really don't have time." With that, Jones pulled the door open and stepped out into the night. Holmes followed Jones with Watson trailing. A carriage sat outside, and the three men jumped in, Jones yelling something at the driver. As soon as they had sat down, Watson reached into his bag, and by the light of a lantern he had brought along, began to work on Jones' wounds.

"I'm telling you, that really isn't necessary" Jones grumbled, wincing slightly as Watson prodded the bullet wound, "I'll be fine. Nations aren't like humans…we can't die in the same manner you can."

"And you are a nation" Holmes said, staring intently at Jones.

The self-proclaimed nation looked up, "Yes. The United States of America. Do you believe me?"

"I don't know" Holmes admitted, "You don't make any scientific sense."

"I don't, do I?" Jones smiled sadly, "Yet, I exist."

"How were you born?"

"I dunno" Jones shrugged, "I don't really have many early memories…none of us knows exactly where we come from…we're just _there_."

"So did you exist before America the nation was formed?"

"Yes. I existed as a colony under Artie for some time…he raised me, you know"

"Yes. And you left him?"

Jones looked up sharply, jerking slightly and upsetting Watson's bag, "I don't see how that's your concern"

Holmes looked unfazed, "We saw the portraits in Kirkland's' basement while we were down there."

"Well? Do you believe me then?"

Holmes ignored the question, opting to look out the window of the carriage instead. Alfred glared at him a few seconds, then leaned back, sighing, "Fine. Do whatever you want. Just…please. Artie didn't do it, and you've got to prove that he didn't"

Holmes looked over at Jones, "Mr. Jones" he said, "I am fully confident Sir Kirkland is not the murderer, just as I am confident that the Archduke was not the main target."

"Wha…what?" Jones looked completely confused, "But…he's the one dead. Did the actual murderer just kill the wrong guy?"

"No" Holmes responded, "The murderer fully intended on killing the Archduke. However, the Archduke was not the killer's main target. The Archduke was just a tool used to meet the killer's goal."

"Well then, who was the target?"

"Sir Kirkland"

"What?!" Jones looked outraged, "So someone framed Artie?! Fucking bastard…I swear when you find out who did it, I'm gonna beat him to a pulp!"

"I'm certain the English justice system will be sure to punish the killer" Holmes responded, leaning back, "Now. How long will it take to get to this safe hold of yours?"

Jones glared at Holmes, "I don't know, Mr. _Know-it-all detective_. Why don't you tell me?"

"We'll be there within fifteen minutes" Holmes responded.

Jones gaped at him, "H…how…you…"

"It's quite obvious, my dear friend" Holmes said, a slight smirk present on his face, "You are terribly concerned for my safety as well as the safety of Watson. You don't want to let us out of your sight, and find it necessary to take us to a location where you believe we will be safe. You do not know how long we shall need to stay in your company, yet told us to pack no other clothing or other basic necessities. Therefore, the location cannot be too far from our residence, as you believe we can simply go back to our flat on a daily basis. However, it is not very close either, as your paranoia would not allow that. So, based on that and the speed of the carriage, this ride should be perhaps a half an hour ride. Almost fifteen minutes have passed. You do the math."

Jones stared at Holmes a few minutes before scowling and slumping back in his seat, "Fine. I get it Mr. Smarty-pants." He muttered to himself as Watson finished bandaging him. The party remained silent the rest of the ride.

* * *

"Well here we are" Jones hopped out of the carriage, holding the door for Watson and Holmes. It was a fairly small building, and somewhat worn. Cheery lights flickered from the inside, sharply contrasting with the dreary London fog outside. Jones strode up to the door, and, raising a hand, knocked.

"Dear God Almighty, wha' is it a' this hour!?" a voice called from the inside. There was some more grumbling, some shuffling, and the door flung open, revealing an old and rather stocky, dark skinned woman. Her dark eyes widened slightly in surprise upon seeing Jones before narrowing in anger, "An' what do you think you're doin' here, Masta' Jones?"

"Bessie!" Jones cried, flinging his arms out in an attempt to hug the smaller woman, only to get a fist to his gut.

"Masta' Jones" the woman glared down at Jones who doubled over in pain at the blow, "You kno' I don' wanna see you 'round here. You ain't nuthin' but trouble. Lord! Everyun knows tha' with Masta' Jones comes trouble!"

"Aw…Don't be like that Bessie!" Jones cried, sticking a foot in the door as she tried to close it on him, "I really need your help! C'mon, do good friends throw their other friends on the streets when they show up on the doorstep, begging for help?"

"Masta' Jones, don' even _try_" Bessie growled, "Eva' since tha' _chicken_ inciden', I've sworn not ta let ya back in here."

"But Bessieeeee" Jones whined.

"NO!" she again tried to slam the door on him, but Jones, being the stronger of the two prevented her.

"BESSSSIEEEEEEEEE"

"NONONONONONO!!!!"

"PLEASEEEEEEE"

"ALRIG'!" the woman threw her hands in the air, "Fine! Ya' win 'gain!" she turned her back on him and stormed off, leaving Jones to let himself and the other two men in.

"These are your connections?" Watson asked, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

"Yep!" Jones looked terribly smug, "I've know Bessie for some time. She's one of the few that knows my secret, you know? She was a slave at my place…before…" Jones suddenly looked terribly uncomfortable, "Well. You know what happened. Now. Let's all find rooms. Bessie runs this hotel, so it shouldn't be too hard to do…just find a room that isn't occupied."

Nodding, Holmes and Watson followed Jones from the door through a lobby and down a hallway. Jones found them three rooms next to each other, and turned to the other men.

"Well. I'm beat" he yawned, stretching as he did so, "I'm going to work on something, and then go to bed. That fine with you two?"

"Yes" the two men said, nodding.

"Well night!" Jones said, slipping into his own room. Watson looked over at Holmes, then started, "Oh!" he hurried over to Jones' room and tried the door only to find it locked, "Mr. Jones" he called out, knocking on the door.

There was a few second's silence before Jones opened the door, looking mildly surprised, "Yes?"

"I need to change your bandages"

"Oh. That" Jones rolled his eyes, then stepped aside, "Well, come on in, I suppose."

The bandaging took only a few minutes, and once he was done, Watson stood once again, "Do these door lock by themselves?" he inquired as he stood in the room's doorway.

"Yep!" Jones smiled, "This place is terribly safe. And I can be a light sleeper if I want…I actually plan on finishing this letter I'm writing before going to bed" Jones indicated to the small desk in the room, "So if there's any strange noises, I'll just break your doors down and save you."

"I suppose that's some reassurance" Watson said, smiling lightly.

"Don't worry about it!" Jones responded, "Good night!"

"Good night"

"So do you believe him?"

After saying good night to Jones, Watson had gone to visit Holmes. They had been talking for almost the last half an hour, and still Watson had no definite answer as to if Holmes believed Jones or not.

"Again Watson" Holmes sighed, "There are some things I want to look in-"

He was suddenly interrupted by a loud crash, a loud noise that sounded like glass shattering. Both men leaped to their feet, and looked briefly at each other, "That came from the direction of Jones' room" Holmes muttered before rushing out the door into the hall.

Watson followed close behind, rushing over to where Holmes had already begin pounding on Jones' door. "Mr. Jones! MR. JONES!"

"Wha's goin' on!?" it was the owner, the woman named Bessie, "Ah! Masta' Jones again, ain't it! Ha! Well, I ain't _evah_ gonna let that bastard back in here afta' this!"

"Madame" Holmes turned to her, his voice low and urgent, "Do you have the keys to these rooms?"

"'Course I do" Bessie nodded, "Is somethin' the matter with Masta' Jones?"

"Well, we heard a loud smash and he won't answer the door."

"It's probably nothin'" Bessie shrugged, "Masta Jones likes destroyin' things."

"Please open the door" Holmes said, frustration quite evident in his voice

"All righ'!" Bessie turned and started back down the hall, "You folks jus' wait here. I'll be right back."

Once she had left, Holmes and Watson began pounding on the door, and calling out to Jones with no avail. The other hotel guests had woken up, and after some time, several of the men tried to break the door down. However, the doors were ridiculously sturdy, and only ended up bruising the men themselves.

"All righ', all righ'" Bessie had finally returned, holding a small silver key, "Here ya go" she grumbled handing it to Holmes, "I dunno why yer so worried…it's Masta' Jones…he alwa's gonna destroy sumthin'"

Holmes slipped the key into the lock, and turned it. The door swung open, and he, followed by Watson, rushed in. There was a large window on the wall opposite to the door that had been shattered, and glass was strewn all over the bed and desk. The bed, unslept in, was covered in small slivers of glass, and the writing desk, on which a half-written piece of paper and pen sat on, also was covered in glass. Other than the glass, however, the room was perfectly orderly, with nothing too significant out of place, save one thing.

Mr. Jones was nowhere to be found.

* * *

**so yeap. reviews are always love! and never think reviews are annoying, i totally love them! :D**

**HINT: **

**Though you may not think it so,  
Here is something you ought to know.  
Everyone and everything  
Sometimes is actually nothing  
Even when a problem appears,  
Really the answer it terribly near  
View this poem from further back,  
And you'll find that something lacks. **

**Ahhh...fail!poetry is fail :3**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey this may sound kinda strange, but does anyone here live in cleveland? I'm going to be going there for college, and it'd be nice to know that I'm not the only hetalia freak in the city...-3-**

**Anywho~a lot of y'all caught the hint, and someone even went a little further with it! This fic is nearly done...perhaps one or two more chapters should wrap it up..mebbe three. **

* * *

Holmes took a brief glance around the room before rushing out, pushing through much of the crowd that was milling about in the hallway. Sprinting through the lobby and down the hall, he yanked the front door open and ran out into the night.

"We're too late" he said, coming to a halt outside the shattered window. He dropped to his knees and began inspecting the ground, pausing very few minutes to mutter to himself. Finally, after some time, he stood, and turned back inside, Watson still following him.

"Well?" Watson asked, looking over at his taller companion.

"A male, about 6 feet tall, wearing square-toed boots and smoking a Cuban cigar. He was nervous, and stood there for about an hour, sometimes staying still, sometimes pacing. With him, a small dog cart, undoubtedly what he used to transport Mr. Jones."

"So Jones was kidnapped?"

"Undoubtedly." Holmes replied, "The glass was shattered from the outside, and neither you nor I heard Mr. Jones slipping out, despite the fact that we were in the hall across from him and both awake. The window was locked, and unless Jones was somehow able to lock the window from the outside, there is simply no way he could have shattered the glass. Furthermore, somebody stood outside Jones' window for about a full hour, pacing nervously, and shifting from foot to foot. Come. Let us see if we can't throw any more light on this incident."

The two men returned to the room, where a large crowd had converged, "Excuse me," Holmes raised his voice over the general murmur, "I must ask that you all leave this room. Miss Bessie, would you be so kind as to call the police?"

"Already 'ave"

"Very well. Until the police arrive, myself and my friend shall be serving as such. We ask that you clear this room in order to better preserve the scene of the crime."

Grumbling slightly, the patrons began filing out. One they were gone, Holmes began his investigation, starting with the small writing desk.

"Hullo!" a cry was soon heard, "What is this?"

On the writing desk, there were two pieces of paper. One was written on, and the other, folded. Holmes unfolded the letter, and frowned slightly before clearing his throat and reading aloud to Watson

"To Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. We insist that you drop all involvement with the case concerning Kirkland and the Archduke" he read, "You are looking into matters that are more important than the likes of you could ever hope to realize, and do not concern you. Until you agree to desist, we shall be holding Mr. Jones, which may strain relations between the United States of America and England. It never does look good when one such as Jones goes missing in a foreign country"

Holmes finished reading and looked up at Watson, a slight frown on his face, "It looks like they're becoming desperate"

"Holmes, this is serious" Watson said urgently, "What if Jones is the States? His kidnapper seemed to know his identity."

"Or who he claims to be" Holmes corrected.

"You still don't believe they're nations"

Once again Holmes ignored him, opting to look down at the other sheet of paper on the writing desk instead. "It's a letter" he observed, picking it up, "Well, I certainly hope Mr. Jones does not mind us reading his letters…Dear Mattie. I'm really sorry I punched you. If it makes you feel any better, you got me pretty good too; my lip is still bleeding. You've got to understand though. Mr. Holmes is the only one that can save Artie. You know how much Artie means to me, and I'm sure he means a lot to you too. I don't know what I would do if Artie died. He's just always been there, since almost as long as I can remember. I know, there was a period, so many years ago, when I lived with our mother, away from Europe, away from Artie, but those days have long gone. I'm sorry Mattie, I really am, and I hope you" Holmes paused, "It stops here. There's a large ink mark across the paper from this point."

"That means that he was stopped abruptly, right?" Watson asked.

"Yes." Holmes put the paper down and looked about the bedroom as he talked, "The kidnapper stood outside the window for some time. He was nervous, terrified even. He paced back and forth to calm his nerves. I believe it's safe to say that he arrived approximately at the time you had just finished tending to Jones' wounds, probably a bit sooner. Jones sat down and started writing. Look in the wastebasket. There are many crumpled up papers, failed attempts at conveying his apology to his younger brother. He was fully concentrated when suddenly…" Holmes trailed off, frowning, "He suddenly fell unconscious. The kidnapper took the opportunity, broke the window, and spirited him away."

"But how does one go from writing an important letter to complete unconsciousness?" Watson looked perplexed, "Did he just fall asleep? Or maybe he was knocked out after the window was broken."

"Not possible" Holmes responded, "This letter was of personal importance to Jones. If he was tired, as you suggested, he would have dozed off at certain points in the letter, before jerking awake and trying to finish the letter. Yet look. All the letters are clearly written, indicating no possible sleepiness whatsoever. In regard to the window problem, from what I have seen, Jones is terribly strong. You saw how easily his brother was able to throw me off, and yet Jones was able to hold down both his brother and the Frenchman. Had the window been shattered, Jones would have been alerted, and even if the kidnapper was stronger than himself, there would be some evidence of a struggle. Yet there is none. Jones therefore, must have been already unconscious at the time the window was broken."

"So the kidnapped managed to knock Jones unconscious before he had even gotten in?" Watson looked incredulous, "How is that possible!?"

Holmes smirked, "It's quite easy actually. Look about the room. It is rather simply furnished, with a desk and a bed as its only furniture. There is the large, shattered window, the door, and a vent connecting it to the outside"

As Holmes talked, Watson inspected the room, frowning, "I still don't see how the kidnapper would have been able to knock Jones unconscious. There's no way he could have gotten a chemical or gas through the vent; we would have seen traces of it. Perhaps he might have fired some sort of projectile through the window, and the hole that created was destroyed when he shattered the window?"

"No. We would have heard it" Holmes replied, "You don't see it? Ahh. Very well then. I have a telegram to send, Watson. Stay here until I get return."

Before the other could protest, Holmes was gone.

"Well" Bessie popped her head into the room, "As I always say, try ta make somtin' outta a bad situashun. Yer gonna be payin' fer yer stayin'. Yep. mightas well make sum sorta profit outta this here 'saster"

Watson groaned.

* * *

Holmes returned in the evening, his face flushed with excitement, "Come along Watson" he addressed his scowling friend, "We will be returning to Baker Street…I have some very important guests for us to meet."

After paying Bessie, the men hopped in the carriage. Watson attempted to start up a conversation of some sort, but realizing Holmes was in no mood to talk, soon fell silent. They reached Baker Street without any incident, and were greeted by Mrs. Hudson, "Mr. Holmes, your guests are already here." She said, taking their coats, "They're in the sitting room."

"Excellent" Holmes nodded, "Now Watson, you shall see who exactly I was so rushed to get in touch with this morning."

They entered the sitting room and Watson gave a cry of surprise. There, sitting next to each other in the armchairs were the two men that had tried to kill them only the night before. "Watson" Holmes said, "I don't believe you have been properly addressed to these gentleman? Here" he indicated to the longer-haired blond, whose handsome face was pulled into a rather somber expression, "We have Mr. Francis Bonnefoy. And here" he indicated to the other blond, who wore a rather worried expression and clutched what appeared to be a stuffed bear tightly to his chest, "We have Mr. Matthew Williams."

"It's a pleasure" Watson jerked his head stiffly, his hand already on the revolver in his pocket.

"Likewise" Bonnefoy responded, also reaching into his coat pocket, "Now Mr. Holmes. Why have you called us here willingly? You are well aware of the fact that I will have to kill you, no?"

"And where's Al?" Williams spoke up, looking concerned, "There's no way he would have let you two go…and there's no way you could have overpowered him…"

"Which is exactly what I'm here to talk to you gentlemen about" Holmes sat in the seat opposite to them, "This morning, Mr. Jones disappeared. The window to his room was smashed open, and this was all that was left behind." Holmes pulled out the note and handed it to Williams, who read it curiously, giving a small gasp of horror once he had finished.

"Francis, this is bad" Williams said, handing the letter to Bonnefoy, who scanned over it and had a similar reaction to Matthew.

"Mon Dieu!" Bonnefoy had gone pale upon reading the letter, "They…they took Alfred!?"

"Apparently" Holmes nodded.

"This is bad." Williams had turned an ashen shade of gray, "Oh god, this is bad bad bad…what are we going to do!?" he looked imploringly at Holmes, "You're some super-detective, right. Oh, for god's sake, you've got to find my brother!"

"Mathieu…" Bonnefoy put a hand on William's shoulder.

"Francis, we don't have a choice any more" Williams glared at Francis, "We've got to trust these people at this point. They already know the truth, and we have to get Al back at all costs. We can't hurt these men."

Francis sighed, running a hand through his wavy hair, "You…you're right" he admitted, "As much as I hate to admit it…gentlemen" he addressed Holmes and Watson, "We need your help. Can you get Alfred back?"

"It will be my pleasure" Holmes smiled and bowed slightly.

"Thank you so much" Williams smiled at Jones, "Do you realize the service you are providing your country as well as the world? Nations have been kidnapped in the past before, but it's very rare, and very problematic when it happens…usually other governments are the ones to capture other nations, as in times of war…when a regular human or humans capture nations, almost always not realizing who it is exactly they've captured, it's actually never too big of a problem, as the kidnappers treat the nations like regular humans, and it's rather easy for the nation to escape. But these people…they know who Al is…"

"The United States of America?" Holmes finished, the skeptism evident in his voice.

"Do you not believe me?" Williams asked, frowning slightly

"We've got a lot to do in a short time" Holmes responded shortly, standing, "Come. Let us go examine the scene of the crime again…there's something there I think I might have overlooked."

* * *

The Archduke's house was as magnificent as ever. The group drove up, halting by a large Indian man, who stepped back, wiping his brow as he did so.

"We're so sorry to have disturbed you" Holmes apologized as he stepped from the carriage, "Did you just plant those?"

A large patch of freshly-planted white lilies bloomed proudly behind the man, "I certainly did" he nodded, smiling slightly, "They're for the Madame"

"Indeed" Holmes smiled, "They're beautiful"

The man smiled at the praise, a handsome and brilliant expression. Though large, the man was rather good-looking with a muscular frame and thick, dark hair. His black eyes were large, as was his smile, "It's nice to get praise here and there" he nodded, ducking his head, "Not a lot of people really pay attention to me.."

"Shame" Holmes responded, frowning, "You've worked hard on these flowers too, haven't you?"

"Certainly have" the man nodded, "Been slaving away all morning. Ah! I forgot…where are my manners? My name is Siddhartha Pandey. But you can call me James. As you can probably tell, I'm the gardener here."

"Why James?"

James shrugged, "Madame couldn't pronounce any of our names, so she gave us English ones."

"I'm assuming you're talking about the servants?" Holmes asked.

"Yes. There's about twenty of us, and we're all Indian…but Madame can't pronounce any of our names, so when we arrive, she gives us new English ones."

"I see" Holmes nodded, "Well. It's only fair that We introduce ourselves as well. I am Sherlock Holmes, this is my close friend, Dr. Watson, Mr. Bonnefoy, and Mr. Jones."

Upon hearing Holmes call him "Jones" Matthew started. However, before he could protest, Holmes started talking again, "Mr. Jones is most terribly distressed; his brother has been kidnapped recently!"

"That's terrible" James shook his head, his face grave, "Mr. Jones, I wish you the best of luck in finding your brother…is something the matter?"

"Ah…" Williams blushed, "Umm…about the name…"

"Ah yes!" Holmes shook his head, "How could I have been so foolish? What was the name?"

"Ah…well, Alfred, and mi-" however, before he could finish, Holmes cut him off.

"There you have it. Mr. Alfred Jones." Holmes patted William' back, "As you can clearly tell, Mr. Jones is terribly worried about his brother…now!" before Williams could protest any further, Holmes had firmly grabbed his hand and shoved him to the side, "Could you allow us perhaps to look about this estate? We are investigating the recent murder of the Archduke, and I believe I have overlooked some details."

"Were you the detectives who came by the other day?" James asked, suddenly.

"Indeed we were" Holmes nodded, "How did you know of us?"

"Emily told me" James said, and upon seeing Watson's confused look, laughed, "Emily, my sister. The girl you talked to?"

"Indeed" Holmes nodded, "She was most hospitable…I suppose if we are to look about, we can't look in the Madame's room?"

James' face turned sober and he shook his head, "No…she's terribly ill…I'm' sorry for the inconvenience, but we really do not wish to disturb her…actually, wait, you might be able to. Follow me." James started back towards the house with the group following him. Once he had reached the inside, he called out, "Anna! Anna!!!"

"Yes, what is it brother?" a young Indian woman, slim and graceful, appeared at the top of the stairs, a look of annoyance on her face. Behind her trailed another man, large and sullen looking with a slight scowl on his heavy features.

"This is Anna, my other sister" James introduced her to the men, "Anna, this is Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, Mr. Bonnefoy, and Mr. Jones. Could you allow them to look in Madame's room? They are trying to solve the murder of our former Master."

Anna frowned slightly, " Sister told me about you men. I'm Anagha, but just call me Anna."

"You were the one that found the door locked?" Holmes asked.

"Indeed" Anagha nodded, "I was set to clean Master's study that day, but when I found it locked, I became worried. I screamed for help, and John, the butler" she indicated to the large, silent man behind her, "Came to help me…beyond that, Sister told you everything."

"She did" Holmes nodded, smiling up at the girl.

"Sister, would it be fine for these men to look in Madame's room?" James asked, looking up at Anna.

The girl frowned slightly, then shrugged, "Fine but only one of you can come it. I'm assuming you will be the one?" she asked Holmes.

He smiled and nodded, "Indeed. Please wait here." He addressed the rest of the party, before ascending the stairs, trailed by James. Once they reached the top of the stairs, the two men followed Anna and John into the hallway.

After they had left, Williams turned miserably to Bonnefoy, "This is an all new low" he moaned, "To be mistaken for Al when _Al's the one who we're looking for_…and furthermore by someone like Mr. Holmes…am I that forgettable!?"

"Wait…" Watson stared at Williams as if realizing something, "You _aren't_ Jones…oh. I forgot as well."

"See!?" Matthew moaned, burying his face in his hands.

* * *

**POOR MATTIE ;A; ahh..sometimes i feel soo bad for him. **

**Hint: the killer's motive was revealed in this chapter. :3**


	8. Chapter 8

**Not much to say...sorry this took so long to come out tho..APS next week, and I'm screwed. ;A; **

**that being said, i think there's only one more chapter left after this...and i'd liek to thank K1M for letting me use her idea in this chapter...i couldn't really think of another random one...**

**Ch. 8**

* * *

Holmes' visit through the manor was unusually brief, and he emerged only half an hour later, his face pulled into a thoughtful scowl. Bonnefoy, Williams, and Watson had draped themselves over the furniture in the waiting room, and upon Holmes' return, Williams jumped up, rushing over to the man.

"Well? Did you find anything?"

Holmes shook his head and smiled lightly at Williams, "Don't worry, Jones. We'll find your brother soon."

Williams sighed, "Look, Mr. Holmes. I know you think my name-"

"Is undoubtedly a very common name" Holmes nodded, "But a good name nonetheless."

"Ahh…no…I mean…" Williams stuttered, protesting.

"Now!" Holmes continued, once again completely ignoring the spluttering nation besides him, "I say we go back into town, grab a bite to eat, and retire for the evening? Mr. Jones, you and Mr. Bonnefoy are perfectly welcome to stay at our flat."

"No, we don't need to impose" Bonnefoy shook his head, stretching as he stood, "We have a hotel reserved, and can just stay the night there…"

"I insist" Holmes pressured, smiling cordially, "There is plenty of room, and no need to spend the night in a hotel. Mrs. Hudson is very hospital, and will delight at having some new guests."

"No, no…" Bonnefoy shook his head, "We already paid for the reservations, we will be quite fine."

"I _insist_" Holmes repeated, his voice taking on a slight edge.

Bonnefoy seemed to notice, and he looked surprised for a second before shrugging, "Fine. We shall stay at your flat tonight…can we take a carriage there now? And on the way over, would you fill us in as to where our dear friend is?"

Holmes smiled, and shook his head, "I really can't make any statements now" he responded, "But in due time…The carriage should be outside; James was so kind as to lend us one of the household's carriages. There is a magnificent restaurant I believe I saw on our way over, perhaps you gentlemen would be interested in dining with us tonight?"

* * *

After eating, the party of four returned to Baker Street, their evening relatively uneventful. "Well" Holmes said, once they had reached the flat, "I'm rather worn out. Mr. Williams, Mr. Bonnefoy, your rooms are just down the hall. Watson, could you come with me? I would like to have a word before bed."

Williams started, staring at Holmes, "Wait…you knew my name?"

Holmes looked somewhat taken back, "Why, yes…you did tell it to me. Why would I not know it?"

"Well" Williams frowned slightly, "You kept calling me by my brother's name at the Archdukes' manor."

Holmes looked genuinely surprised, then frowned, "Dear me, did I?" he asked, "I must have slipped. You will forgive me for my crass mistake, won't you?"

Williams shrugged, "It's not the first time I've been mistaken for Al, so don't worry about it at all. I'm used to it."

"Wonderful." Holmes said, smiling broadly, "Now Watson, come, good night gentlemen" he said, addressing Williams and Bonnefoy as he clasped a hand on Watson's upper arm, "I hope you sleep well."

* * *

"What are we doing now?"

Watson glared at Holmes, shutting the door behind him. His friend smirked slightly, and seated himself on one of the chairs in the room, "Watson, you know me too well. Tell me, are you tired?"

Watson shrugged, "Not particularly. But I would like to go to bed soon."

"Well" Holmes shook his head, "We won't be sleeping much tonight, if at all. I'm sorry if you were looking forward to a nice rest, but we really must stay alert tonight. Come on now."

"Wait where are we going?" Watson asked as Holmes stood.

"Outside. If I am not mistaken, we will be having a very special visitor tonight."

"Is that why you insisted Bonnefoy and Williams stay with us?" Watson asked, "Wait, do you think someone is trying to kidnap all the nations? I mean, they got hold of America, perhaps they are trying to get more?"

Holmes frowned, the discomfort evident in his face, "Nations…If they are nations, you mean?"

"You still don't believe them"

Holmes was silent, walking swiftly over to the door and yanking it open, "Come Watson. Time is passing, and we need to make sure our visitor does not leave without being properly greeted."

"No."

Holmes paused, quirking an eyebrow, "No? What is the matter?"

"You have to tell me" the other said, shaking his head, "Do you believe them? Do you think they're nations or not? Well man, come! Speak up!"

"I…" for the first time since Watson had met the man, Holmes looked uncertain. It was strange, seeing his friend's usually confident face, with such an expression. He had seen Holmes puzzled, seen the man deep in thought, but never uncertain, "No." Holmes finally said, his face hardening as he turned slightly away from Watson.

"Why not?" Watson pressed, "Everything would be explained is they were nations! The portraits, the age gap, why the government cannot touch Kirkland…"

"It's just not logical!" Holmes exclaimed, shaking his head, "Everything I have done Watson, my entire career, my entire life's work has been based off of one thing, and one thing alone; logic. What these people are suggesting is just…it's just lunacy! There is no possible way for things such as "personified nations" to exist…There must be another solution, something we overlooked, something that would explain this all to us. You must always eliminate the impossible to find the truth, and this…this is simply impossible!"

"But don't you see, Holmes!?" the other protested, "It would all make sense if that were the case!"

"There's a lot of things that makes sense that are not the truth."

"Yet you are able to eventually thrust the truth into the light" Watson countered, "And yet, I have not heard from you a single possible alternative to this situation."

"You want an alternate solution that is just as plausible?" Holmes said, "Fine. The murderer killed the Archduke, because his sister had been a victim of the Archduke's womanizing. The murderer had a grudge against Kirkland…how? That shouldn't be too hard, people can hold grudges for the strangest thing, say a gardening contest! The murderer, wildly jealous that he was unable to get his hands on the prize, decided to kill two birds with one stone. He would murder the Archduke, and then pin the blame on Kirkland. There. Is that good enough an excuse for you?" Holmes shook his head, "I do not form conclusions like that, for reasons you know well. I never form a theory until I have all evidence gathered. Doing so would cause me to warp the evidence to fit my theory, when really it should be the other way around."

Watson was slightly taken aback by Holmes' outburst. He had known the man for years, and knew that he was his closest (if only) friend. Never, _never_ had he seen Holmes in such a state before, "It's unhinged you, hasn't it?" Watson asked quietly, "This idea, the possibility of something that just isn't logical...you can't, no, you won't ever accept it will you?"

Holmes looked at Watson, and frowned before smiling weakly, "You know me too well, don't you?" he shook his head, "Watson, I've had many cases in my life. I've seen strange and stranger things. But this. This defies everything. This goes beyond anything and everything I've ever done. It…sometimes I don't even know what to make of this case. And you know what's most baffling? Not the case itself, oh god no. It's rather straightforward, and not too difficult, but the people involved, the people are another matter. Are they nations or people? My body says yes, yes believe them with everything, believe they are nations, and yet my brain says no. And between the two, I chose to listen to my brain. Is that the-"

There was a loud crash and both Holmes and Watson jumped slightly, "Good god! He's here sooner than I thought!" Holmes exclaimed, grabbing a heavy walking stick and revolver, "Come, Watson, quickly now! There's not a second to waste!"

The two men ran from the room, and, to Watson's surprise, instead of heading up the hall where the crash had sounded from, ran outside. Watson, knowing Holmes better than to question him, followed close behind. As they rounded the building, Watson caught sight of a large figure disappearing into the flat through what looked like a broken window. Holmes ran after the figure, jumping in the window after him. The person, a man, started as Holmes entered behind him, and made to break for it. He was dressed in all black, with a black cloth mask over his face. Holmes grabbed the man as he tried to escape, and soon the two men had fallen to the ground, wrestling.

Watson, trailing closely behind Holmes, watched the two men fall to the floor. Confident that his friend would be able to handle himself, Watson was about to run out for help when a sudden, long drawn out gasp caught his attention. Turning from the fight, he was startled to find Williams on the floor, his face an ashen gray as he gasped for air. He was writhing in pain, bucking up and down every few seconds as his unusually pale eyes rolled to the back of his head. A giant snake lay coiled next to the man, its dark eyes watching Watson carefully. Gasping as he recognized the snake's colors, black with pale stripes, Watson involuntarily took a step back, "My god Holmes!" he cried, despite the fact that his friend was occupied in the fight, "It's an Indian Krait!"

As if confirming Watson's suspicions, Williams gave one final gasp, shuddered, and became still. Watson looked back at Holmes, who was still occupied with the other, man, and frowning slightly, pulled his gun from his coat.

"You shouldn't do that"

Watson startled, and looked up. Bonnefoy had appeared on the scene, and looked at the snake, his eyes slightly narrowed. "He's a nasty little fellow, isn't he?"

"The man or the snake?"

"The snake of course…Let me handle this. If you get bitten, it's over for you…" before Watson could protest, the Frenchman had drawn a thin rapier out of seemingly nowhere, and eyeing the snake, struck.

The snake, also glaring at the man, struck at the same time, and the blade of the rapier pierced its head, killing it. It fell to the floor dead, and Watson and Bonnefoy rushed over to Williams' side, "Good god, he's dead." Watson said, looking down at the body below him.

"No he's not." Bonnefoy contradicted, "Look. His chest is still moving, and breath still comes out. No, today will not be Mathieu's final day. He's alive. He will probably be out for a while, as the poison is flushed out of his system, but ultimately, he will be fine."

"B…But" Watson protested, kneeling over the unconscious figure as well. He grabbed the man's wrist and turned it over. Sure enough, right above the artery, were two small puncture wounds, "That can't be!" he exclaimed, "This man has been bitten by that snake, and yet he's still alive! That is one of the most deadly snakes in the world…its venom is sixteen times more venomous than cobra venom…no man has ever survived its bite! So how is he still alive!?"

Bonnefoy smirked, "Need I remind you again? We're nations. We don't die of things that kill humans. Mathieu will be fine…goodness knows I've had much worse injuries than a snake bite, and I'm sure he has too. No, something like this will not kill him."

Watson gaped at Bonnefoy a few seconds, before another loud crash from behind startled him out of his shock. While Bonnefoy and Watson had talked, Holmes had been wrestling with the intruder, and now finally pinned the other man down.

"I much appreciate your help in this Watson" Holmes said, his voice slightly tinged with something that might have been resentment, "Either way. We've caught the man that kidnapped Jones. Come on Watson, lift up the mask."

Watson crossed over to where the man was still struggling against his companion, and with little difficulty, lifted the mask, letting out a loud gasp as he did so.

* * *

**Yea. I'm a jerk...well, Holmes was really Ooc here, but i think it's b/c his precious logic has been shattered. he's so devoted to it, that if something liek the nations showe up, he'd get slightly Ooc...sorry if that bugged anyone...**

**clue: the snake. '**

**thanks for reading and plz review~**


	9. Chapter 9

**This came out pretty fast...I hate cliffies, and well, I figured you would hate it too. teh review really helped motivate me to get this out sooner. If there's typos or anything, it's b/c i'm in a hurry to publish this...need to get to class. **

**So I lied. one more chapter after this...ahhh...sorry for teh miscalculation. **

* * *

Dropping the mask to the side, Watson exclaimed, "Why, we just met you a few hours ago! You're James, the gardener, right?"

"Yes" the man sighed, before wriggling slightly, "I suppose the game it up ? Very well. Mr. Holmes would you please mind letting me up? You have my hands pinned in the most uncomfortable position."

Holmes nodded, and, taking a length of cord from the curtain, tied his capture up with it. The man shrugged his shoulder, trying to get comfortable, before sitting up and looking at Holmes.

"I suppose you want me to explain myself?" James asked, looking expectantly at Holmes.

"If you want" Holmes shrugged, "But we already know most of the story…not the entire story albeit, but a good deal of it."

"Very well" James responded looking around. His eyes fell on the dead snake and he frowned, looking considerably upset, "Who killed the snake?"

"That would be me" Bonnefoy said.

"Really?" James sighed, "He was such a good snake too. Terribly tame, and a very nice fellow. Oh well. At least he lived for many years. I brought him from my homeland, you know…had to smuggle him aboard the ship we sailed over on. I suppose that's where I should start? From the beginning, right? My sister and I sailed over from India almost a decade ago, when we were rather young. We needed jobs, and well, as you know, India was no longer stable when we left. We were employed by the Archduke, among with a number of Indian servants. You know why that sick bastard employed Indians?" the man asked, his face darkening, "It was because he knew we had nowhere else to go. England is not a very forgiving place, and he knew we wouldn't last a day on the streets. So he took advantage of us. He paid us barely enough to keep us alive, and never enough to get away. He was as sick, sick man…I remember walking in on him a few times…My sister was safe at first. He wasn't interested in the younger children, but she, like every other girl soon grew. He tried to take her once, and I suppose that's when I snapped. I pulled her away, and we got into a fight. He said he would fire me as soon as the next shipment of servants came from India, and keep my sisters. I…I couldn't allow that. I killed the bastard, and Mr. Holmes, I have no regrets."

Finishing his narration, the man looked up at Holmes, his eyes dark and tired.

"That's an interesting story" Holmes responded, nodding, "But unfortunately, it's a story and nothing more. Where does Sir Kirkland come into the equation? Where does Mr. Jones come in?"

James frowned, "Sir Kirkland was a convenient scapegoat. I'm not going to deny it; I hate all English nobility. So I did not feel much remorse for killing the Archduke and pinning it on another noble. When Kirkland came, he met with the archduke, then left. I was hiding behind the curtains in the Archduke's room through their entire conversation. Once Kirkland had left, I murdered the Archduke. It took less than five minutes, and I managed to catch Kirkland as he was leaving and slip the key into his pocket. Jones was just because I wanted you to get away from the case. It doesn't appear that it worked though."

"Again, James, the _truth_." Holmes stressed the last word, "I want the truth."

"This is the truth" James said, looking nonplussed, "Why would I lie about killing a person?"

"Because you are trying to protect someone." Holmes said coolly, "You're covering for the real murderer, aren't you? How does my version of this story sound? You and your sisters came from India for revenge against Sir Kirkland. While here you found employment under the Archduke while plotting your revenge. Your sister, probably the youngest, Emily, was violated. Anna, the older, found out, and was instantly furious. In her rage, she plotted her revenge. She would kill the Archduke and pin it on Sir Kirkland, whom she knew the Archduke to have contact with. She carried out the deed one night when Kirkland came to visit, and you, terrified of her getting caught, kidnapped Jones in order to keep us away from the case. However, you heard us talking today in the manor, and heard me referring to Mr. Williams as Mr. Jones. The semblance between the two is uncanny, and you, terrified that you had taken the wrong one, returned tonight to take whom you had thought was Mr. Jones, when, in reality, you have had Mr. Jones the entire time."

James had been staring at Holmes as he talked, his mouth slightly agape, "H…Ho…that..that's ridiculous!" he laughed weakly, "My younger sister? Have you seen her? She's a very small woman. Pray tell, how did a woman her size overpower the Archduke? You saw the wounds; the Archduke saw his attacker coming. Yet he was not able to fight her off? He is at least five times her size; ever if she were armed, he should have been able to overpower her."

"In his normal state, yes" Holmes responded, smirking, "But the Archduke wasn't feeling well was he? And something terribly interesting; I found this in your garden while I was looking around" Holmes pulled from his pocket a small legume that looked like a snow pea, "Indian vetch." He proclaimed, "An Indian plant used commonly to feed livestock, and produces very high yields, no? It's rich in protein, and neurotoxins. Often, it is a cause of neurolathyrism, a neurodegenerative disease that causes paralysis of the lower body and emaciation of the rear end. And wasn't the Madame suffering the exact same symptoms? It was simple for your sister really, to slip small amounts of this plant into the Archduke's food over a period of time. She put some in the Madame's food as well, as a test. So when she met with the Archduke, it really wasn't difficult for her to kill him…his entire lower body was paralyzed; indeed, he was just a sitting duck for her attack."

"We use that plant to feed the livestock" James relied stubbornly, his eyes slightly diverted, "Nothing else"

"Oh, really?" Holmes shook his head, "I think Madame would explain otherwise. I'm sorry, but your sister is the murderer and you know it. Once she killed the Archduke, the only matter left was to frame Kirkland. The other sister, Emily, took Kirkland's coat at the door. She would have had plenty opportunity to slip the only key into the man's pocket, where it would have not been discovered until his person was searched."

"If that's the case" James retorted, "How do explain the locked door?"

"It was never locked."

"The butler testifies to such. Are you saying he was in this grand scheme too?"

"No" Holmes shook his head, "the butler believed the door was locked. Remember the story; Anna tried to open the door while the butler helped. What did she do? She simply held the doorknob, making the door appear locked, and held it until James was able to force the lock. If you examine the door frame, it is ripped, but not in the manner it would have been had it been a single point they were trying to force. No. what happened that night is simple. Kirkland arrived, and talked with the Archduke. Sometimes in the process, I am guessing most likely when he tied up his horse, Kirkland grabbed the metal pipe. There were several pipes around the house, to serve as plumbing, and I doubt the one that the police believe to be the murder weapon actually is. It would have been such a brief contact, I doubt he would have even remembered it. Emily greeted Kirkland at the door, planted the key, and Kirkland went to talk with the Archduke. After he left, Anna murdered the man, with another pipe. She then took the Kirkland pipe, and, presumably wearing gloves, smacked it hard against some other object. Once that was done, she covered it in blood, planted it at the scene of the crime, and pretended to scream for help as she held the door shut. You, however, realized what had happened, and in a desperate attempt to keep the truth from coming out, kidnapped Jones. You have returned tonight, under the pretense of kidnapping Jones, but only have found Williams. Tell me, James, how does this theory sound?"

The man had gone pale and simply gaped at Holmes, his jaw slackened and eyes wide, "Ahh…you…"

"However" Holmes pressed, "There are still some things that confuse me. Firstly, how did you knock Jones unconscious? I assumed you had used a snake, as there were markings indicating such outside Jones' window that night, but what snake did you use?"

"That one" James responded, jerking his head over to where the dead snake lay, "He slithered in and bit Jones. You saw what the snake did to his brother…from there, it was simply a matter of breaking in and leaving with Jones."

Holmes frowned, looking at the dead snake's body, "So Jones is dead?" he pressed, looking surprised. He looked back at James, "I was under the impression that you just wanted to capture the man, not kill him."

"No. Jones is alive" James smirked, sensing Holmes' discomfort, "What? Come now, Mr. Detective, surely you've figured out by now that these monsters aren't human" he sneered, jerking his head over to where Bonnefoy knelt over Williams, "Jones wouldn't die from a snake bite…he's a nation after all, no?"

There was a sudden slow clapping from the window, and the group looked up, surprised. Accompanied by Mycroft, Sir Kirkland himself stood in the mess of the window, an elegant top hat on his head and a smirk on his face, "So you've done it, Holmes" he said addressing the man, "You've solved the case and this…scum is the cause of it?"

James let out a snarl, and for the first time, his face was livid, "_Hail Britannia_" he spat the venom evident in his voice, "The mighty British empire finally decided to show his piggish face?"

"How did you get out?" Watson asked, staring at Kirkland.

"Connections" was all the man responded, before turning attention back to the bound man on the floor before him, "Come, boy. Tell me. How do you know about us?"

"My name." James growled, "_Pandey._ You understand now?"

Kirkland looked blankly at the man for a second, before throwing his head back and laughing, "Pandey!? Pandey!? That fool? Oh…oh, you must be joking! No? You're serious? And this is your petty form of revenge?"

"Pandey…"Watson muttered, "My god, how could we have been so foolish!? Mangal Pandey! The sepoy rebel! He was hanged, for treason against the British Empire, wasn't he?"

"Yes" spat James, "Yes. My father was hanged. He was hanged for fighting this bastard…for fighting for _her!_" James was struggling against the bonds now, "You don't understand, do you, Kirkland? Do you know what you've done to her? She's broken, destroyed! What is she to you? A tool?"

"India?" Kirkland shrugged, "Yes. She is indeed a tool. A very useful one, if it's any consolation to you. I'm glad you understand, though, boy. Your father clearly didn't. That's what colonies are for, to serve the motherland. They are not family, and you do not, under any circumstances, become attached to them."

"Or they leave you and break your heart" it was James' turn to smirk now, "You think that nobody has heard that story? Of how the _mighty_, the _unstoppable_, the _unbeatable_ British Empire was defeated by a ragtag group of farmers with guns? Oh, _England_, you have no idea, do you? That boy wasn't just a colony to you, was he? He was something more…and he is the one that left you. Isn't that why colonies are now just colonies? You no longer bother trying to spread your culture, do you? Not after him. Not after America."

Kirkland glared at the man, his green eyes filled with contempt, "America? He is a backwater nation. He will never amount to anything, will never become a world power. He's a joke, a hick. He was never my family, and never will be."

"Oh really now?" James' smirk grew, "Then why have you come rushing over here? Come, you try to keep the composure of a calm gentleman, but there is nobody here who cannot see straight through it. You're scared that something has happened to him. Well. At least I shall have some satisfaction. I know where your precious nation is, and you do not."

Kirkland snarled, "You will tell us where you took Alfred."

"And if I don't?" Smirking, James suddenly jumped back, seizing the dead snake. Before anyone could react, he had forced its mouth open, and with his hands still bound, sunk the snake's fangs deep into his wrist.

Kirkland was on him in an instant, "Where is Alfred, damnit, where is he!? Tell me you bastard!!! Don't you fucking die!!"

The man laughed, his body taken by a violent seizure, "How does it feel?" he said, "To be powerless? And to a human, no I'm not even that to you, am I? How does it feel to be one-upped by trash, tell me Arthur Kirkland, tell me how does it feel?" with one last maniacal laugh, the man spasmed, then became still.

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**Pandey- He was a famous Indian who rebelled against the British empire and was hanged. His death sparked the sepoy revolt in India...I have no idea if he actually had any family, but now he does! :D**

**thanks~and reviews are loveee~~~**

**ehehe...wonder where alfred is, no? XD **


	10. Chapter 10

**So this is the last chapter...but there's a short epilouge after this, so it's not quite over yet...sorry! ;A; **

**Thanks so much for all the reviews~hope y'all enjoy! :3'**

**Oh, and if you were wondering why arthur's such a jerk in this chapter...well. he was the british empire at teh time this fic was written...so i always see him as a insensitive, controlling bastard during this period. it's not until teh beginning of teh decline of the british empire does he become teh blushing tsundere we all kno...but that's just my headcannon. **

**also, i see alfred as loving arthur to death...(love USxUK) but still using him for his own gain...liek, america's always been using european problems to his advantage, so he uses iggy while loving him...does that make sense? **

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Kirkland remained huddled over the body for a few minutes before letting it fall to the ground with a soft _thump_. "Scum" he muttered, turning from the man's corpse.

"Arthur" Bonnefoy muttered, straightening slightly as the other nation approached him.

"Is Matthew alright?" Kirkland asked.

Bonnefoy nodded, "It was a bad bite, and he will be out many hours…but overall I think he will be fine. Come Arthur, you know it takes much more than that to kill our type."

"Very well." Kirkland turned his attention to where Watson and Holmes stood, the latter unusually quiet with a tight frown on his face.

"Well Mr. Holmes. Truly I thank you for finding the actual killer." Kirkland nodded at the other man, "However, you realize I require your assistance one last time?"

"Yes" the other man nodded, "You want to know where Alfred is?"

"Yes…Do you have any idea?"

"It's rather obvious, actually" Holmes replied, the slight, tight frown never leaving his face, "I trust you would like to accompany us to where Jones is now? Ah! All of you? Very well. Mr. Bonnefoy, I do not doubt that our dear landlady can watch over Mr. Williams in the time we are gone…but perhaps we should do something about the corpse…"

"No" Kirkland said, shaking his head, "Just leave it to rot. Nobody misses an Indian. Now come. I haven't much time, and would like to ensure Alfred's safety as soon as possible."

* * *

They pulled up to the Archduke's manor in the early hours of the morning, Watson frowning slightly as they halted. "Holmes" he asked, "Haven't you already looked through this entire house?"

"I have" Holmes nodded

"Then why have we come back?" Watson looked confused, "Did you perhaps see Jones while you were here?"

"No exactly" Holmes responded, leading the party of four up to the front door and knocking loudly.

There was a pause, some scuttling, then the door opened slowly. Emily, the younger sister, looked up at the group of five men, and let out a surprised squeak.

"I'm sorry to bother you at such an hour" Holmes nodded, "But I think we might have overlooked something. Do you mind if we come in?"

"Yes" Emily nodded, her face pale, "Yes, I do mind. It's late. I want to go to bed, and last thing we need is for you to disturb the entire household, and Madame with your antics"

"I'm quite certain that we will not wake Madame" Holmes assured her, "And unless I am not mistaken, aren't the other servants in their quarters?"

"Yes…well…no" Emily shook her head, "You'll disturb Madame"

"I don't think Madame can be disturbed at this point" Holmes said, shaking his head, "Now, isn't that right?"

The girl paled further, and seemed at loss of words for a few seconds before shaking her head again, "N…No. You're not coming in here. You…you're not official. You don't have a search warrant, so you have no right to enter this house. Now goodnight."

She made to close the door, but was stopped by Kirkland, who shoved a foot in the opening.

"H…hey!" Emily cried, "Move your foot!"

Kirkland did not respond, but simply reached forward, grabbed the door, and yanked it open, easily overpowering Emily. The girl fell to the floor, before turning to Kirkland, her eyes tearing up slightly from the fall.

"You don't have the right to come in here!" she cried, "Now get out before I call the police!"

"Do you honestly think that will do anything?" Kirkland scoffed, not bothering to look at the girl, "Nobody in England cares if your kind lives or dies. The police won't do a thing. Also, the right to a search warrant does not apply to your type, so if I were you, I would shut up about things I did not fully understand."

The girl gaped at Kirkland for a few seconds, before standing, hatred burning in her eyes, "Y…you…you _bastard_….you…do you not think I…I don't know what kind of _monster_ you are? How many people have you killed?"

"I don't kill people" Kirkland shrugged, "Those savages are not people…and it's so tiresome too. To try to educate them when their minds have already been so corrupted by those ridiculous "traditions" they have. The white man's burden is heavy indeed."

The girl let out a shriek of fury at Kirkland's last comment, and hurled herself at him. He easily sidestepped her attack, and grabbing her arm as she stumbled forward, pinned her to the ground.

Kirkland looked expectantly up at the group who had stood watching the entire spectacle unfold. Watson was frowning, clearly uncomfortable with the turn of events, Mycroft and Holmes seemed not as disturbed, but also wore expressions of discomfort, and Bonnefoy simply seemed bored.

"Well?" Kirkland looked at the four men expectantly, "Are you coming in or not?"

Bonnefoy was the first to follow, trailed closely behind by Holmes and Mycroft, then Watson. Emily struggled some more, before snarling up at Kirkland, "What do you want here anyways? Is destroying my family not enough for you?"

"We're here to get Alfred back" Kirkland responded, not bothering to look at the girl.

"Wh…what!?" she looked shocked, "What makes you think he's here?"

"How do you even know about Alfred?"

"I overheard them talking about him the last time they were here" Emily jerked her head in the direction of Watson and Holmes, "They said he was that guy's missing brother, right?"

"Yes. He's here" Holmes said, looking about, "He's in this house"

"Why do you say that?" Emily asked, her expression furious, "You've already been through his whole house…why did you decide that he was here now?"

"It's quite simple actually…" Holmes muttered, more to himself than to her.

"Well then!?" Emily demanded, "Where is he?"

"In the one place we were forbidden to look" Holmes replied, "Madame's bedroom."

"But…but you went in there!" Emily protested, "Remember? Yesterday, we let you into Madame's bedroom, and allowed you to look around!"

"You did now, didn't you" Holmes nodded, "And it was a rather simple bedroom, was it not? Just a large bed, a closet, and a desk. Yes very simple indeed. Certainly no place to hide a full-grown man, right? Or one would like to think…Nonetheless." Holmes smiled, "We shall see when we get there. Now come along."

Kirkland dragged Emily to her feet, and shoved her into Bonnefoy, "Watch her frog" he said.

The other nation shrugged, and taking the girl's upper arm, smiled pleasantly at Kirkland. "Goodness, Arthur, you actually seem worried for Alfred's health"

"Shut it" Arthur growled, turning to Holmes. "Well? Lead the way"

Holmes nodded, and the group went up the stair case that led to Madame's room, Emily's feet dragging the whole way. It was the last door at the end of the hallway, and once they had arrived, Holmes pushed the door open.

A large bed took up the majority of the room, covered in thick sheets and large pillows. There was a sizeable lump in the bed, and a young girl had been leaning over the lump. Upon hearing the door swing open, she jumped, surprise evident on her face, "Wha-!?" she managed to get out as the group entered the room.

"Anna, isn't it?" Holmes asked, walking over to the bed.

The girl instantly tensed up, "What is it to you…Emily!?" she had spotted her sister, who had begun struggling renewed at seeing Anna.

"Anna!" she cried, "They…they…"

"We would like Mr. Jones back" Holmes interrupted, meeting Anna's glare with an even stare.

"Why would I know where this Mr. Jones is?" she snarled, "I don't even know who you're talking about."

"On the contrary, I think you know perfectly who I'm talking about" Holmes paused, staring at the lump on the bed, "Is Madame alright?" he asked, looking up at Anna.

"I don't see how it's your concern" she responded, "And she would be alright if you gentlemen so kindly released my sister and left this house!"

"No…I'm afraid we can't do that…" Holmes shook his head, "And please, do not lie. You're a pretty girl and lying really isn't becoming of you."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about"

"Tut. Another one?" Holmes shook his head, "Well, how many have you told me in this one conversation alone? Let us see…firstly, you claim not to know who Mr. Jones is, when you clearly do. Second, you claim Madame is alright when she is dead and buried…"

"What!?" Anna look dumbfounded, "She's right here!" Anna pointed to the lump on the bed, glaring at Holmes.

"Oh is she now?" Holmes looked amused, "Well then why don't you pull back the covers. I don't see how she could breathe under all those sheets…"

"Doctor's orders" Anna responded, "She's to be kept warm."

"Very well" Holmes nodded, "But I'm sure that it wouldn't hurt to pull back the covers for just a second, right? Come. Lift up the covers."

Anna tensed, glaring at Holmes. Then finally, with a terrible snarl, she reached forward, grabbed the covers, and in the same, fluid motion, pulled a dagger from the folds of her dress and sunk it deep into the lump in the covers.

There was a terrible tense second, when the lump twitched violently, then stopped, a bright red stain spreading steadily across the sheets.

"My god!" Holmes was the first to react, lunging forward and shoving Anna aside. The girl had already pulled her dagger from the lump, and smirked as Holmes yanked the covers back to reveal an unconscious, bleeding Jones.

"Watson." The doctor was at Holmes' side in a second, and had already begun to tend to the wound.

"Holmes…Holmes, I don't think he'll make it." Watson looked worried, "the dagger, it's gone straight through his heart."

"Is there no way to save him?!"

Watson quickly removed the shirt from the unconscious man, "No…no, this is a fatal wound."

"He won't die." Kirkland had appeared on the other side of the bed, and looked down at Jones. Placing a single hand over the wound, he scowled, his face darkening in rage. "He won't die" Kirkland repeated, "See? His heart beats still…that's not to say that this wound won't hurt."

The blood was still pouring from the wound, dark red, and brilliant. As Watson leaned over the body, he noted something strange. Though there was a good deal of blood loss, the familiar copper tang that accompanied blood remained absent. Instead, a strange scent, the smell of a freshwater river, powerful and clean, seemed to fill the room, overwhelming the senses to the point where Watson could have believed, had he closed his eyes, that he was on a riverbank.

"Holmes…what is that smell?" he asked, turning to his friend.

"Do you smell it?" Kirkland's scowl had not left his face, "It's the smell of a nation, Alfred's lifeblood. The waters of the Mississippi."

Holmes was frowning, glaring at the body. Leaning forward slightly, he dipped a finger in the blood before raising it to his mouth and tasting it.

"Doesn't taste like blood does it?" Kirkland asked, smirking knowingly.

"No" Holmes shook his head, "It…it tastes, well, it tastes like a river."

"Because it is." Kirkland turned his attention back to Watson, "Bandage him up will you…My god, what happened to his arm?!"

"Mr. Bonnefoy shot him there" Holmes responded, examining the wound, "He was trying to kill me, and Jones shoved me aside."

"So Alfred's been shot in the arm, bitten by a poisonous snake, and stabbed through the heart?" Kirkland asked, an eyebrow raised.

"That sounds about right" Holmes nodded, "He was terribly desperate to save you."

"Stupid boy" Kirkland said gruffly, quickly looking away, "Well..please. Make sure he's alright…" turning his attention to Anna, who had not moved from his place on the floor, he smirked.

"Well…looks like your revenge failed, girl" he said, shrugging, "We'll have the police come get you…they'll probably want to hang both of you."

Anna glared up at Kirkland, "You…you…you…my father…"

"Ah yes. Wasn't your father Pandey?" Kirkland smirked, "He was particularly annoying…"

"YOU BASTARD!" Anna shrieked, "You…you…do you have any idea…our father…he was everything to us. I still remember the day he died. He told me who you were. Pointed to you, you were there, don't you remember? He pointed at you, called you the enemy, and explained what you had done to our land, our country…and then he was dead. It killed my mother. She died only a month later, and we, my brother, my sister and myself were left to fend on the streets…" Anna was shaking by now, tears pouring down her face, "we couldn't do anything. My brother got a job, but…but he couldn't pay for all of us…I…I whored myself out for money…those filthy pigs…" she hiccupped loudly, "And do you know why? Do you know why brother had to drop out of school, do you know why I became a prostitute!? Because of you! You and your damnable empire! You…that day father died, you were laughing…I saw you! Talking to your fucking friends, smiling, chatting… you didn't care that another man was dead, did you!?"

Kirkland regarded the girl through the whole rant with cold indifference. When she paused, he shrugged, "Your father was not a man." He responded, "But a savage. If only you had learned your place in the world girl, you might not have condemned yourself…unfortunate, no? Oh well. Another Indian gone. There are plenty of you, so it shouldn't be too hard to replace you."

Anna stood, clutching the dagger tightly in her fist. Kirkland seemed to have noticed, and raised an eyebrow in disbelief, "Are you going to stab me, girl?"

"No." with that, Anna lunged at Bonnefoy, who released Emily in shock and took a few steps back. Raising the dagger, Anna stabbed Emily through the chest. The younger girl let out a small gasp, and fell forward, a sad smile on her face.

"I'm sorry sister" Anna murmured before turning to glare at Kirkland, said, "Know this, England. Your empire will not last forever…it will end soon, and when it does, someone will rise to take your place."

"I know that" Kirkland responded, "It's a cycle. It always has been, and always will be…that's the way the world works."

The girl smiled, "It is, isn't it? Your fall will be painful, I warn you…and the one that takes your place. He will be one that you think is a friend…you are so blind, not to realize that you are only a tool in his eyes. Ah well. By the time you realize, it will be too late. Have fun being a pawn England. Have fun being used by the one whom you raised. Perhaps then you shall understand my nation's pain."

With that, she plunged the dagger deep into her own chest, piercing her heart, and fell to the ground, dead.

* * *

**So i left somethings unexplained, and it may be somewhat confusing, but i'll explain everything next chapter...sorry if this chapter sucked. my brain's kinda melted...i haven't been slepping much thanks to damn APs...-3-**

**thanks for reading and plz review! :D **


	11. Chapter 11

Ast part~for all of those who have stuck through with this to teh end thank you so much~

* * *

Several days had passed since the incident at the Archduke's mansion. After Anna had killed herself and her sister, another one of the servants went to get the police. While they were gone, Kirkland and Bonnefoy grabbed Jones and between the two of them, hoisted the unconscious man into the carriage.

"Shouldn't you wait for a doctor?" Watson had asked, trying to stop the two as they struggled under the weight of Jones' body.

"No." Kirkland shook his head, "Last thing we need is someone else finding out about us. We were never here."

They had disappeared after that, leaving Holmes, Watson and Mycroft to come up with a story for the police, after Mycroft and Holmes had rearranged the room slightly.

Since then, they had gone their separate ways, Mycroft back to his residence, and Holmes and Watson back to theirs. Despite not having a case, Holmes seemed to constantly be in deep thought, sunk deep into his armchair with his pipe hanging out of his mouth. Every now and then, he would spring up, a fire in his eyes, and perhaps disappear for a few hours, or play with his many chemicals, but he would always come back, his face drawn into an even deeper frown. Soon after, the apartment would again be filled with tobacco smoke and the long, drawn out wail of the violin.

Watson, who had no choice but to live with the terribly moody Holmes was used to such behavior. However, that was not to say he was enjoying it. One evening, in an attempt to pull Holmes out of his stupor, Watson casually remarked (rather loudly, as the violin would have drowned him out otherwise), "Did you hear Holmes? They found the Archduchess' body."

The violin paused and Holmes looked over at Watson, his dark eyes slightly dulled, "In the garden under the irises, right?" he asked, his tone flat.

Watson frowned, "Yes actually. How did you know?"

"Elementary" Holmes said, tracing patterns in the air with his violin bow, "I already had my suspicions that day when we went to the Archduke's residence. When we arrived, the brother of the main suspect was planting irises. Do you remember what he said? The flowers were for Madame. Irises are the flower of death. The flowers were to serve as an excuse for digging the hole in which they dumped Madame's body."

"Well then. How did you know about the Indian vetch?" Watson pressed.

"Again Watson" Holmes sighed, "It's rather simple. You are in a house in which two residents suffer similar mysterious symptoms. There is a high Indian population, a large number of people who may be familiar to poisons that the average Englishman knows nothing about. So from there, it was simply a matter of locating said poison."

"Jones' location." Watson pressed.

"The culprit has no connections in England" Holmes replied, as if bored, "He would have trusted nobody else with Jones, and thus took it upon himself to hide the man. Where then, save the mansion could he hide it? I looked all over the mansion, and found no trace of Jones. So, elimination tells us that Jones is in the one place I failed to look. Understand now?"

Holmes let out another sigh, and before Watson could say anything else, the long, drawn-out wail of the violin filled the flat again.

* * *

A few days later, Watson, tired of Holmes' dreary company, went out for a walk, rambling aimlessly with no real direction. His mind wandered over various topics, from Holmes' behavior to the mysterious enigma that were those five men; Alfred F. Jones, Matthew Williams, Francis Bonnefoy, Ivan, and, of course, Sir Arthur Kirkland. It was almost impossible to believe that, well, they could be personifications of _nations_, but at the same time, it made so much sense. He had been wandering along when suddenly a voice called out to him, "Watson!"

Looking up, he was surprised to see two of the very men he had been thinking about. Sir Kirkland and Mr. Jones had been coming up the same street Watson had been going down, and jogged over to where the other man stood.

"Hey there!" Jones smiled, patting Watson on the shoulder, "How've you been? Feels like I really didn't get a proper chance to thank you or say goodbye! Where's Holmes?"

Watson smiled wearily, "I've been better" he responded, shrugging, "As for Holmes well…I think you should come see yourself." He paused, taking in Jones' appearance. It had been over a week since they parted, and already Jones showed no sign of previous injury, "You're completely healed?" he questioned.

"Yep!" Jones grinned, "Nations heal faster than humans."

"I see" Watson frowned, "How many people know about you?"

"Hardly any" Kirkland responded, "You can, of course, imagine why it's kept that way. We have houses all over our nation and have to move every five to ten years. People would start getting suspicious if they noticed how we did not age."

"So…how old are you really?"

"Who knows?" Kirkland shrugged, "I'm a few thousand, and Al's about 200."

"I see." Watson said, "Sir Kirkland, what were those portraits in your basement?"

Kirkland paused, tensing slightly, "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"The one with you and a younger Jo-"

"I said I have no idea what you are talking about" Kirkland interrupted, his voice harsh and tense, "Now. Are we going to visit Mr. Holmes or not?"

* * *

The group returned to the flat almost half an hour later, silent for the majority of the journey back. When they got there, almost instantly they were greeted by a frantic Mrs. Hudson, "Oh good god, doctor!" she exclaimed, grabbing onto the front of his jacket, "He's finally gone mad!"

"Calm down, my dear lady" Watson reassured her, detaching her hands from his coat, "What is he up to now?"

"I don't know" she replied, shaking her head, "He was gone for several hours after you left, and came home only fifteen minutes ago, dragging the carcass of a dead sow behind him! There's blood all over the place, and, my god, you've got to do something about him!"

Watson frowned and turned to his two companions, both of whom were watching the entire spectacle unfold with some interest, "I'm terribly sorry" he said, "You must understand his…eccentric behavior."

"Oh, no, no…" Sir Kirkland shook his head, merriment evident in his eyes, "It's quite alright. I've seen…stranger things."

"Yes well…" Watson turned back to the frightened landlady, "I should go talk to him now, I suppose?"

"Yes. Good god, yes, please!"

Watson entered the apartment, followed closely behind by Alfred and Arthur. The three made their way to Holmes' room, Watson pausing only to rap lightly on the door.

"It's open." A voice, clearly preoccupied called from the other side. Watson pushed the door open, letting out a soft cry at the sight of his friend, kneeling over a dissected pig carcass. Upon hearing Watson, Holmes looked up sharply, giving the doctor a quick, "Good evening", before setting back to work.

"Good god man, what is wrong with you!" Watson exclaimed, making his way over to where Holmes knelt over the pig corpse.

"What?" Holmes responded, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted, "I covered the floor in a sheet. It won't stain."

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed upon seeing the so-called sheet, " That's my shirt!"

"Oh, yes." Holmes shrugged, "I suppose it is."

Watson gaped at his friend a few seconds before closing his eyes and shaking his head, "This..I…just…what are you doing?"

"Well" Holmes stood, brushing his grimy hands on his pants pockets, "If you really must know, I've been investigating various mannerisms in which a being could be shot, stabbed and poisoned and yet still survive…" the man caught sight of Jones and Kirkland standing behind Watson and trailed off, a small frown gracing his features at the sight of the two nations, "Good evening, gentlemen" Holmes nodded, "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"You still don't believe us?" Jones asked.

"That you are what you claim to be?" Holmes turned away, "There must be a logical solution to all problems. Logic is the one thing in the world that is solid, that is dependable. If I believe you, I lose this one stable thing I have…you do understand, don't you?"

"I suppose that is why you are considered to be so brilliant" Kirkland said, "You have one defined ideal, one defined factor…and nothing can shake you from this belief. You are able to see past false ideals and theories, past ridiculous explanations and ideas."

Holmes shrugged, "I suppose one may say that" he responded, "You…if I accept you, I have to accept everything that is illogical…Fairy tales.."

"The Fae are real" Kirkland responded stubbornly.

"Exactly" Holmes replied, "Gentlemen, that is simply not something I am willing to accept. If I accept you, I have to accept that logic is fallible. Call me stubborn, call me ridiculous, but this is something I will not do."

Kirkland and Jones stared at Holmes for a few seconds, allowing a silence to fill the room. Finally, Kirkland smirked, "I suppose if there's anyone who can disprove us, it's you, Mr. Holmes…come visit me in a few decades. I assure you, I will be at the same location I was today…just ask your brother for my address." The nation tipped the top hat he was wearing at the two men, and readjusted his grip on his walking stick, "If you don't mind gentlemen, Al and I will be taking our leaves."

Kirkland looked Watson directly in the eyes for a brief second before turning his gaze to Holmes and turning on heel, left the apartment, with Jones following in his wake.

As soon as the two had left, Watson let out a gasp he had not been aware he had been holding in. As Kirkland's gaze met his own, in that brief second before he had left, Watson had experienced the strangest sensation. It was as if something, some being, not human, yet so much so, something so familiar, so close, something so amazing and terrible, beautiful and twisted, something that he had known and loved all his life had stared at him in that one instance. _Something I would die for._ He realized in shock, _Something…I would allow myself to be wounded for…_ his hand subconsciously flew to the bullet wounds he had received during his time in Afghanistan, and he gasped in surprise, feeling them throb in sharp pain.

_Thank you for fighting for me._

A voice, deep and rich, heavy and low, like the rumble of a lion passed quickly through his mind, and he looked up, over to where Holmes stood, his face also displaying shock.

"Do…" Watson managed to croak, "Now…do you…"

Holmes pursed his lips and said nothing, straightening up and marching to where the pig carcass lay, "I'm busy, Watson. Please leave me alone."

Watson said nothing, staring at Holmes a few seconds before making his way over to the door, "You know" he said, pausing with a hand on the doorknob, "You really should take Kirkland up on his offer."

Holmes shrugged, a slight smile playing on the edge of his lips "Perhaps I will."

_**~Fin~**_

**Again, thanks for reading it..sometimes i feel so bad for watson.**

**I kno some of you were disappointed that holmes never believed the nations, but it would just be so Ooc to convince him that something so impossible existed. Hope y'all enjoyed! 3**

**~roundabout225**


	12. Omake

**So I know that this story already ended...but then last night my friends and I watched the BBC sherlock..and...well...this is what happened. If you haven't seen it, you should. IT'S AMAZING 3 it's like sherlock holmes but it's modern day and just sdfajslfkj. awesome. anywho. i wrote this and realized it was really to short to be its own fic, so just stuck it on the end..oh and holmes and watson in the BBC ver? SO. GAY. 3 i don't wanna ship them, cuz watson's married and whatnot, but they're sooo shippable! ;A; I wouldn't say it was "better" than the american movie, just different, you kno? they're both good interpretations, if you ask me. So that's my rant. Sorry. -3- **

* * *

Alfred sighed, stretching as the credits rolled across the screen.

"Well?"

Arthur sat next to Alfred, smirking as he detangled himself from the younger nation's embrace.

"Not bad" Alfred shrugged, "Still think my version's better though."

Arthur scoffed, "As if. Cumberbatch made a much more believable Holmes than your Robert Downy Junior."

"No way!" Alfred vehemently shook his head, "RDJ's got Holmes down _cold_. That Holmes was too wimpy. He always got his ass kicked in all the fights! Plus, there's _no fucking way_ Moriatry's gay!"

"He wasn't _gay_" Arthur replied, testily, "He was just _pretending_ to be gay."

"Oh c'monnnn" Alfred whined, "He was _so_ gay. I mean, did'ja hear him talk? He just needed to wear a little more pink and perhaps do that flippy thing with his hand, and he'd be a total Feliks. Also, Jude Law was a much more badass Watson than that other dude."

"Martin Freeman" said Arthur, "Who I believe mad a _much_ more believable Watson than Law. And you didn't even _have_ Moriatry in your movie!"

"That's cuz he's gonna be in the sequel! And Law totally kicked Freeman's ass. Your Watson was just too much of a pushover. Mine actually had balls. Remember that one scene where he punched Holmes in the face? Exactly!" Alfred retorted, "Plus, Rachel McAdams was in mine, and she's much hotter than any chick in your series."

"Your movie didn't even reference any of the actual Holmes cases! Mine had several! It's more accurate"

"Mine made Holmes _awesome_."

The two nations glared at each other for a few minutes before Alfred laughed, flopping back onto the sofa, "I don't think either of us could actually capture the real Holmes though…"

Arthur smiled, and shook his head, "Indeed not. We still owe him and unpaid debt."

"And that's why we're making all these awesome TV shows and movies about him!" Alfred said, grinning widely, "I think that's pretty good payment."

"Hm. Indeed…"

"Hey Artie?"

"Arthur"

"Artie." Alfred said, ignoring the older nation, "Did Watson ever chronicle our case?"

"He chronicled all of Holmes' cases, Alfred."

"But I don't remember ever coming across it."

"I never said he _published _all of them" Arthur said, smiling, "He knew it was too big of a secret to reveal…and sent me the manuscript he had written before he died."

"Wait, you have it!" Alfred exclaimed, bolting up.

"Indeed I do."

"Let me see!" Alfred cried, "I wanna see it!"

"Wait here." Arthur stood, and after stretching a bit more, left the room. He returned a few minutes later with a worn, thick envelope. Sitting down on the couch next to Alfred, he pulled from the envelope a thick manuscript, also rather worn.

"Sir Arthur Kirkland" Arthur read aloud, picking up a small slip of paper that sat atop of the manuscript, "Though I doubt you remember me, I shall never forget that strange and mysterious case your young American friend, Mr. Alfred Jones, presented us that dreary evening so many years ago. As I write this, I am fading rapidly; my health has been deteriorating in the past few months, and even I know it is only a matter of time before I join my dear friend and wife on the other side. I am glad that I was at least able to see through the end of the Great War; there is talk of another one on the horizon, but I hope that this is just rumor and remains as such. In this package is the documentation of your strange case, one that I never published nor ever plan to. Keep it, as a recollection of one of the most brilliant minds ever gifted to our nation. Your humble servant, Dr. John H. Watson."

Alfred stared in wonderment at Arthur, "Wait. Watson sent this to you before he died?"

"Yes."

"His dear friend…is that…"

"Yes. Holmes passed away before Watson did…it was a peaceful death, at least, not expected by anyone who knew Holmes"

"Oh." Alfred frowned, "Did you ever see them again after that case?"

Arthur smiled, "They came out of retirement, briefly, to aid in the World War I effort…then Holmes retired to beekeeping, and Watson retired with his wife. Holmes published a book before he died, _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen_, in case you are interested in reading it."

"So did Holmes ever see you again, or believe you? I mean, that we're nations and whatnot?"

"Let's begin this story, shall we?" Arthur asked, flipping to the first page of the manuscript, "Upon my many years of chronicling the adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have come across many strange and unusual cases. However, there is one case that stands out amongst all the others, one that I will never quite understand nor be able to comprehend…"

Alfred snuggled up against Arthur, his memory drifting back to the darkened streets of London so many years ago.

* * *

**NOW i'm done. I hope. gahh. X3 and i'm sorry to all those who wanted to kno if holmes ever met arthur in the future, or ever believed that they were nations..that'll just have to remain unknown now, won't it? **

**thanks for reading!**


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